Cast Under an Alien Sun (Destiny's Crucible)

by Olan Thorensen

  “It was insane, but somehow it succeeded, thanks to Denes Vegga here.”

  Vorwich regarded Denes with a nod of approval and raised questioning eyebrows.

  Denes was discomfited. “Oh … I agree. To the insanity. But it wasn’t my idea. Remember, Abbot, Yozef suggested it.”

  Sistian’s face was blank for a moment, and then his eyes widened when he remembered the chaotic scene in the courtyard as they prepared for the raiders. “Yes, now I remember. Where in God’s creation did Yozef come up with the idea?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m glad he did. It was a boon from God that he thought of it.”

  “Or God whispered it to him,” murmured Cadwulf, who had been listening from the outer circle of the gathering.

  Sistian threw his eldest son a sharp look, frowned, and took on a more thoughtful expression.

  “Yozef?” asked Vorwich. “Who’s this Yozef?”

  Sistian grimaced—or grinned. “Yozef Kolsko. The stranger who washed up on the beach here not two years ago. I’ve written you about him several times.”

  Vorwich’s eyebrows rose. “The stranger who’s been introducing all these new products? The same one?”

  “The same,” said Denes.

  “Hmm . . . ,” responded Vorwich. “And now he’s some kind of warrior, too?”

  “Well,” said Denes, “certainly not a fighter. He made the suggestion and tried to help during the fighting, but from what little I saw, I doubt he’d ever held a weapon in his hands before today.”

  “Then how is it he understood enough to make the wild suggestion to let the Buldorians into the abbey? And now that I think about it, what made you listen to him?”

  Denes grunted. “I think you’d have to be around Yozef to understand. After all of the new ideas that seem to come from him, it’s given him the status of someone to be listened to. I only paid scant attention to him before, but when he said to let the Buldorians inside the walls, it was like a light went off in my head. After today, I’m sure I’ll I find myself listening carefully to anything he says.”

  “Denes is right. There’s no doubt he’s someone to listen to,” said Sistian. “A little strange he might be, and I’ll admit I still have reservations about where he came from and some of his ideas, but I can’t deny he’s brought major changes to Abersford. I’m sure even in Clengoth, you’ve seen the effect he’s having.”

  “I know, I know,” said Vorwich. “The ether and the new lanterns are impressive. I wasn’t so sure about some of the others, but my wife and daughters assure me the . . . ah . . . personal products have given him considerable status among the women of Clengoth. I’ve also heard complaints from some of our craftsmen about this Kolsko ruining their trades with all these innovations.”

  Sistian nodded. “I can see the argument, but Yozef has been a boon to Abersford workmen, and he’s extraordinarily generous in putting coin into works that benefit all.”

  “Yes,” said Vorwich grudgingly, “I’ve heard several of the workshops in Clengoth are using his tools and techniques. It’s those who cling to their traditional methods who complain the loudest.”

  “Believe me, I understand . . . and Diera even more so. There are still a few district medicants who resist the new treatments, including ether, and one brother at St. Sidryn’s still suspects Yozef is somehow an agent of the Evil One.”

  “That seems doubtful, given those for whom the ether is considered a God-send, and if he really did help save Abersford and St. Sidryn’s from the Buldorians. I would have to say that gives him considerable credit to draw on.”

  The boyerman looked around again at the courtyard. Only remnants of the barricade remained. His gaze touched the piles of raider weapons and armor, the pools and swatches of drying blood on the courtyard ground—and shook his head. “However you did it, you all deserve my respect.”

  He turned again to Sistian and Denes. “What’s the final butcher’s bill?”

  The abbot’s lips pursed, and his jaws clenched. Then he sighed and forced himself to relax. “I know it could have been far, far worse, but we have fifteen dead, about twenty-three serious wounds, a couple of whom might not live, and perhaps thirty lesser injuries.”

  “How many dead Buldorians?”

  Sistian looked at Denes. “I’m told one hundred thirty-three bodies,” answered Denes with a satisfied snarl.

  “My God. A hundred and thirty-three dead Buldorians and only fifteen or more dead Keelanders,” summarized the amazed Vorwich.

  “Only eleven of our dead were here at the abbey,” said Denes. “The other four were villagers who didn’t leave in time—one too ill to walk, two older citizens who either didn’t want to leave or physically couldn’t leave in time, and one younger man who his friends think was sleeping off a drunk.”

  “Even more amazing,” said Vorwich. “The actual fighting to result in one hundred thirty-three to eleven dead, and the Buldorians all experienced fighting men. I’m willing to believe it a miracle from God.”

  “Oh, I assure you, there will be many a prayer of thanksgiving this day and for years to come,” declared the abbot. “This will be a day Abersford remembers for many lifetimes.”

  Vorwich motioned to one of his men to come forward. The man carried a leather pouch across one shoulder and reached into it for a pen and paper he then handed to his boyerman. “I need to send a rider back to Clengoth to semaphore on to Hetman Keelan the general situation. I’m sure he’s hard to be around right now, wondering what’s happening here. He needs to know the situation is stabilized, and there’s no need to send more men.

  “Abbot, I know you have more immediate tasks, but as soon as you can, write a detailed report of everything that happened. Best if you and Denes both write separate reports to get different perspectives. Although I don’t think there’s any chance the Buldorians will return, just in case, the fifty men I brought with me will stay the next two days, until your other men return from Gwillamer and patrol. The rider carrying the message for the hetman should meet the additional men coming from Clengoth. I’ll include instructions for them to turn back. I don’t see they’re needed here. I’ll return to Clengoth tomorrow, so have your reports ready by tomorrow morning.”

  As If Nothing Had Happened

  For several more hours, Yozef sat on a stone curb, watching people moving about. His leg throbbed from his wound and the stitches. He relived the minutes of the battle a hundred times. It was late afternoon by the time he recognized signals from his body. His muscles ached, his throat was parched, and his stomach growled to remind him that despite what had transpired, he was still alive and had not eaten or drunk anything since the morning meal.

  It was a slow walk to the cottage, aided by a forked tree branch serving as a makeshift crutch. Seeing the cottage exactly as he had left it that morning seemed . . . wrong, as if the intervening time might have been another dream . . . or a nightmare.

  Elian sat on the porch. As soon he rounded the hillock a hundred yards from the cottage, she rose and went inside. When he approached, Brak appeared in the doorway of the barn he had built to replace the original dilapidated one. He held a pitchfork in one hand, the other arm bandaged and tied to his side. Brak gave him a curt nod and disappeared back into the barn.

  He entered the cottage. It smelled of freshly baked bread and a meaty stew. The table was set for one.

  “Is Brak all right?” Yozef asked. “His arm is bandaged.”

  “A minor cut from the abbey this morning. The medicants treated it, and we came back here.”

  “Is he working in the barn with an injury?”

  “There’s work to do,” Elian said matter-of-factly. “He’s not one to let needed work be put off.”

  Not even if wounded in a life-or-death fight that morning?

  “Sit and eat,” Elian said. “I bet you haven’t eaten anything since morning meal.”

  She never asked about his limp or the condition of his pants leg.

  Yozef sat. Elia
n set a bowl of stew, a covered loaf of warm bread, and a flask of phila wine in front of him, then stood there to be sure he ate. He looked at the food . . . at the older woman . . . at the food . . . and ate.

  He thought he had caught a glimpse of her at the abbey this morning. She and Brak must have moved as fast as their aging bodies would let them get to the abbey before the raiders, taken part in the defense, then come back here for Brak to work and Elian to bake fresh bread.

  Who were these people?

  Caernford, Hetman Keelan’s Manor

  Culich Keelan couldn’t sit. He had been on his feet for ten hours, ever since first word of the raid on Abersford and St. Sidryn’s had arrived from Clengoth via semaphore. His bad knee ached, and Breda gave up trying to get him to sit. Maera didn’t try; she knew it was futile and was surprised her father didn’t wait for news at the semaphore station in Caernford, instead of at the Keelan Manor.

  The men in the main hall also waited for news, but most sat. Word had spread throughout Caernford, and those with families and friends at Abersford, along with those simply concerned, milled by the hundreds around the semaphore station just outside the clan’s capitol.

  For the fifth time, Culich asked the same question. “Pedr, Vortig . . . you’re sure we shouldn’t be sending men to Clengoth?”

  For the fifth time, Vortig gave the same answer. “Not from the reports we’ve had so far. Boyerman Vorwich dispatched a hundred and fifty men. They should be at St. Sidryn’s by now, although even they are likely too late to make any difference. If the pattern is the same as raids on other clans, the raiders are gone within a few hours. All we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

  For the fifth time, the answer did nothing for the hetman’s mood.

  Maera and Breda watched the latest exchange from a doorway to the main hall.

  “I wish your father would get off that bad knee of his,” Breda said. “What good does it do to aggravate it?”

  “Speaking of Father sitting, what about you, Mother? I can’t remember seeing you not standing.”

  Breda wrung her hands. “Oh, Maera. I still have trouble even conceiving of this. St. Sidryn’s! I can’t help but imagine Culich and Diera killed and the abbey burned! That’s what happened to other abbeys attacked the last few months. Somehow I didn’t believe it could happen in Keelan.”

  “I know how you feel. I knew it was possible, but knowing something is possible is nowhere near the reality when it happens. There’s still hope. The abbey is some distance from the shore, and people might have had time to flee inland.”

  Breda shook her head at the attempt to assuage her fears. “Do you really think Culich would abandon the abbey or Diera, if there was even one patient in the hospital?”

  Maera was quiet for several seconds, then morosely shook her head. “No. They’d both stay at the abbey. All we can do now is await word and pray they fought the raiders off.”

  “Which is what I have been doing all day. I only hope God is listening.”

  Both women jerked their heads toward the front of the house when they heard a horse gallop up, then neigh as if being brought up short by its rider. Then voices—many voices from the others waiting on the front veranda. Culich and the other men poured out from the main hall and through the front door, Maera and Breda merging with the men.

  A messenger from the semaphore station leaped off his horse and bounded up the front stairs, as Culich rushed out the door. The hetman grabbed the message without saying a word or looking at the messenger. He glanced over the message, visibly relaxed, and then read it again slower. People held their breath. Culich let the hand holding the message fall to his side. Pedr Kennrick snatched it without asking and started reading, as the hetman spoke.

  “The raiders were beaten off and have left. St. Sidryn’s and Abersford suffered minimal damage and casualties. No further assistance is required, according to Boyerman Vorwich.”

  The sounds of multiple lungs letting out air was audible, followed by a cacophony of exclamations and questions.

  “How—? Other information—? Thank the Merciful God! How many casualties—?” On and on it went.

  Culich raised both arms to quiet the gathering. “There’s no other information in the message. Boyerman Vorwich says he’ll pass on more as it comes to him. There’s no way to know when more will come, so it’s best we return to whatever we were doing until we hear more later today or tomorrow.”

  The request to disperse was fulfilled, although it took a half hour of small groups talking and Culich meeting with Kennrick and Luwis before he could finally sit.

  Abersford, Service of Thanksgiving

  The day after the raid, word spread that in four days, Godsday, a special service for those slain in the raid and for deliverance of the rest of the people would be held in the cathedral. The time was later than normal for a Godsday service to allow those more distant to travel. And they came: every soul in Abersford and the abbey who could move, people from farms, mines, and settlements as far away as Clengoth, including Boyerman Vorwich and his entire family. Visitors traveling through the empty countryside and nearby hamlets would wonder what had happened to the people. They’d have learned the answer if they reached St. Sidryn’s Abbey and viewed horses, carts, wagons, and carriages staked for hundreds of yards around the main wall, and they may or may not have been able to pack themselves into the cathedral. The normal seating capacity of 800 was extended to 1,300 with temporary benches, chairs, cushions, boxes, and anything else that could support a person, with more people crammed into the pews than usual. Another almost 300 souls stood at the back and sides, on walkways two, three, and four stories around the chamber and a final hundred or more sat on the floor of the altar area normally reserved for the brothers and the sisters.

  Yozef found the cathedral packed. He squeezed into the main hall, content to find a place among the throng standing to one side, when Brother Fitham appeared, grasped his right elbow, and dragged him to a front pew, where Denes held a space for him.

  He had attended many services since his arrival, and this one started out with the standard call to worship and a series of traditional calls and responses between Abbot Sistian and the people. The difference came when Sistian, instead of launching into a sermon, recounted their deliverance from the Buldorians. Naturally, primary thanks were given to God, then the abbot named names: the fallen, the dead, and the seriously wounded; those who had lured the Buldorians to the open gate; Denes Vegga, for organizing the defense; and Yozef, for his insights into defending the abbey. Yozef dreaded the attention. He had been so afraid. Four days since the raid and he still shook and his throat constricted whenever he let his mind linger over that morning.

  “And thank you, Merciful God, for Yozef Kolsko,” the abbot intoned, “the stranger who came to us in need, who became part of our community, who brought so many betterments, and who has been the implement of God’s grace on our day of danger.”

  Yozef cringed. He’d only made a suggestion that had popped into his head! He’d wet himself! He didn’t want everyone looking at him as a hero.

  No one knew it, but the abbot’s reference to Yozef being “an implement of God’s grace” would linger in people’s minds.

  Chapter 34: Not Over

  Preddi City

  Okan Akuyun dismounted, gave the reins to a guard, and was halfway to the headquarters entrance when stopped by Admiral Kalcan’s voice.

  “General, a moment of your time, please.” Akuyun turned to the naval commander walking briskly toward him.

  “Yes, Admiral. Come on up to my office.” The two men entered the outer foyer. Guards came to attention, as did other staff, as they climbed the staircase into Akuyun’s office.

  “So, Morfred, what has you excited this morning?” Once alone, Akuyun often used first names with his immediate subordinates and allowed them the same privilege. While such familiarity was not universal among the Narthani, Akuyun believed it helped them believe in his trust and
confidence.

  “The Buldorians, Okan. They were due back from the raid on the Keelan abbey by yesterday at the latest, possibly sooner since the distance is so short. There’s been no sign of them. This morning I sent a sloop to the Buldorians’ base at Rocklyn. They should be back late today or tomorrow. In addition, another sloop reported back today after finishing a routine sweep along that part of the Caedellium coast. They were some distance offshore, but the captain reported that the abbey and the nearby village appeared intact. The Buldorians had orders to burn anything they couldn’t carry off, but the captain saw no indication of fires. The last time we had contact with Captain Adalan and his ships was when they left four days ago for the raid.”

  “I assume there continues to be no sign of any other warships around the island, except ours? No one else the Buldorians could have run afoul of?”

  “No. So the question is, where are the Buldorians?”

  “Your conclusion?”

  Kalcan shrugged. “I expect they decided their association with us had reached an end, and they sailed for home.”

  “Well, I suppose that simplifies how to end our relationship,” Akuyun grimaced. “We are about to move into the next phase anyway, so this won’t change our plans.”

  “I agree. We suspected the Buldorians would do this eventually. What about Major Nertof and his two aides?”

  “Ah, our redoubtable Major Nertof. It seems unlikely the Buldorians would take them home to Buldor, so I surmise our liaison men came to an unfortunate end.”

  “That would be my guess,” agreed Kalcan. “Too bad the Empire loses such a capable and well-connected officer.”

  Both men smiled. Nertof was from an important Narthani family but had been considered incompetent by superiors in his previous and current assignments. Only his family connections had protected him. Even worse than his incompetence was his delusion of his own superiority and resentment at not having advanced faster.