by Tim Mathias
The supply convoy took just over an hour to unload and to be stowed away. At seeing the size of it, Zayd thought it would have taken at least twice as long, but Walrend’s men executed the task with precision and the discipline of a military maneuver. That Walrend himself was there inspecting nearly every wagon helped keep them focused.
The men who had brought the convoy – one of the Empire’s mariner units – had a brief respite after their march to Ten Tower. They had their midday meal with the rest of the Fourth and exchanged news from their respective fronts.
“This might be one of the last times we resupply,” one of the mariners said.
“The war isn’t over. Not until Vaetus defeats the Shields,” a soldier replied.
“That could be soon. Could be that it’s already done. We were resupplying another regiment close to the front, five days ago maybe. They said that the general found where the Shields were camped and was marching there. So it could be that those slippery fools have finally met a righteous end.”
“I’ll believe it when I see their heads piled high.”
They went on, but their chatter drifted into the background as Zayd thought about what he had heard. The mariner was right; if Vaetus managed to corner and defeat the Shields then surely it meant the war could formally be considered over. Neither Vaetus, though, nor the emperor would declare it at an end with enemy still in the field.
Zayd thought about Sera and what she might think, how she might feel, if she were to hear what was being said. It would undoubtedly be the final blow to her and her kind. She had said as much already, that there was no hope left for her people, that it was only a matter of time before they were gone. It might be true, but Zayd did not believe she had truly accepted that. If he handed the Raan Dura to her, he knew she would try to save them. There was still hope, as there had been hope for the Tauthri……
When they had finished the meal, the mariners organized outside north gate, arranging their convoy in marching order. Talazz, impossible not to be noticed, waited ominously next to the dais, resting his unsheathed greatsword against his shoulder. The spotless steel gleamed in the midday sun so brightly that it seemed as though the blade itself was made of light.
Walrend’s soldiers were assembling as well, some watching the mariners as they readied to depart, but many more eying the dais in grim anticipation. Zayd glanced over to the wall next to the stables, looking at the carriage and its canvas-covered charge. Commander Walrend was there giving orders to Drusidus, the mariner captain, while a pair of horses was being bridled. In just a few minutes they would be taking the carriage out towards the coast and from there straight to Lycernum. Zayd walked slowly around the soldiers by the dais and tried to block out their murmurs as Walrend continued to speak to Drusidus, catching only fragments of what was being said.
“…only those you trust… not look under the canvas, or tell them what is underneath… Vaetus will hold you responsible for its safe delivery to Lycernum…” Drusidus, a short yet broad and muscular man, nodded intently at everything Walrend said. When the commander finished speaking, the gruff captain gave him an enthusiastic salute. Zayd’s fingers continued to tap restlessly against his leg as the commander motioned for the carriage to be brought into line in the caravan. Zayd hoped that the captain at least had the discipline not to peel back the canvas to see what was underneath.
The mariner convoy exited the fort with few paying them any attention; all eyes had become focused on the dais as the prisoners, about thirty in all, were marched in a single line towards it. A few jeers and shouts were hurled at the traitors, but Zayd only watched the convoy as it left. Even when he heard the unmistakable sound of Talazz’s sword biting through flesh and into the thick wood block underneath, he did not take his eyes away from the fort’s north gate as it closed.
The buzzing of flies did not abate at night. The blood-soaked dais stood mostly intact, though splinters of wood sprayed outward from its centre. Talazz had proven too effective and had quickly whittled away the wooden block on which the traitors had to rest their heads before they were struck off. The block had to be replaced twice before the last prisoner had died. The dead were then taken outside the fort’s high walls and burned on a pyre in a clearing. Zayd thought Walrend would save the heads for some gruesome display. “This ground will be stained red for days,” he had heard the commander mutter. “That is enough of a display.”
Clouds concealed every star. The air hung heavy, promising a storm, but there was no wind, as if the night was holding its breath for Zayd. He held his breath, too. From his post in one of the southern watchtowers he surveyed the fort. Besides the Tauthri, only a handful of guards were awake, keeping watch by the gates at the north and southeast points of the fort. A few wandered the perimeter, half-heartedly checking for anything amiss. When one of them passed below Zayd’s tower, he descended the stairs to the ground without making a noise.
He wasn’t sure if the other Tauthri were watching him. If they were, they too must have been wondering what kind of madness possessed him. Yet there was no madness in it. What Zayd had witnessed until now was merely the distant roll of thunder that introduced the tempest. If the darkness here reached Lycernum then it would have what it wanted. Zayd accepted that, whatever this ancient evil desired, it would not be something he would understand, but he could still reason that, understood or not, it must be resisted. Because if it reached Lycernum, it would only be a matter of time before its influence reached Tauth. And that was something he would not allow.
At the bottom of the tower’s wooden staircase was an oil lantern. Zayd picked it up and waved his hand in front of it several times. He breathed deeply and walked halfway back up and waited, his hands gripping the rail tightly. A guard passed by underneath him twice. It could have been the same guard; he wasn’t looking. He was wholly focused on the lantern that, after an interminable wait, winked back at him from a distance.
Zayd waited for a guard to make another pass and again descended when one went by. Lifting the lantern from the nail on which it hung, Zayd whispered a prayer. “This is not treason,” he said. “I am forever loyal to the Empire. This is not treason. This is… disobedience.” Going against a general’s orders would be only a slight offence when set next to allowing the edicts of Xidius to be debased and dishonoured. He walked about thirty paces, where the patrolling guard had just gone, and when he was close enough to the unoccupied southernmost watchtower, Zayd in an instant felt his strength ready to leave him. Why not do nothing instead of risk everything? The question could not be kept away from the front of his mind for very long. Standing in the light of the lantern he held, an answer finally came to him: to do nothing was to risk everything.
He swung the lantern by its handle and threw it, watching the flame flicker behind the glass as it flew away from him, getting more and more dim until it blossomed in a hot orange bloom against the side of the watchtower. There was a breath of pure silence… and, as Zayd turned to run towards the stables, the chaos began to unfold.
“Fire! Fire!” desperate cries sounded. From the corner of his eye Zayd could see another red-orange bloom take shape closer to the eastern wall. Shouts and cries became mixed and muddled together. It nearly sounded like battle. “Dramandi! Dramandi near the south gate!” Zayd heard a Tauthri voice exclaim.
As he ran past the blood-stained platform and neared the north end of the fort, Zayd could see the carriage, with horses bridled and ready, waiting for him. The woollen sheets that had concealed the carriages were heaped in a pile nearby. Ahead of the carriage, the north gate was opening. Tascell and Lesryn were there, bows in hand. Zayd climbed atop the carriage, grabbed the reins and spurred the horses into motion. There was a group running towards them –– the Dramandi prisoners.
And then Sera was there, climbing onto the carriage and sitting beside him.
“Once we’ve made it out,” Zayd said before Sera could even open her mouth. “Not now. Just… let me know if we’re be
ing followed.”
As the carriage rolled through the north gate, Zayd looked over his shoulder and could see the Trueborn streaming out of the barracks towards the south end of the fort, some fighting the fire, many more arming themselves to fight the Dramandi on the other side of the wall.
And then they were out, and he lost sight of everyone. Sera looked back to see the other Dramandi prisoners make it through the gate and out into the forest beyond. They stayed that way – Zayd looking forward and Sera looking back – for a long time, long past when the sounds of the fort had disappeared and all they could hear was the carriage’s wooden wheels and the pounding of hooves.
Chapter 21
In the dream he had made it past the wall. Nasiri and Myron were both relieved and overjoyed at his success, and afterward everything fell into place: Andrican and Egus both realized he had been right all along, that they had not seen what was right in front of them. Andrican, so abhorred by his poor judgment, nearly prostrated himself before Osmun, as if he were a god demanding praise. He was granted the title of cleric almost immediately.
Osmun didn’t recall defeating the shadow, but he must have because the emperor requested that Osmun attend him in the Corviscan Palace, where he offered him congratulations on his advancement as well as his sincere gratitude for safeguarding the Empire and the faith. He couldn’t see the dark spectre lurking as it did, or hiding just in the corner of his vision. Yes, surely he must have bested it and sent it back to the accursed Beyond.
The waking world was much less kind. It was simple pain, corporeal and mundane, that tethered him and then dragged him from the ideal world that seemed so pliable to his whim back into harsh consciousness. It took him a moment to realize his limbs were reluctant to obey him, and when he opened his eyes the world was a blur of colours and shapes that had melded together. He let out a groan.
“Try not to move.” The voice came from a nearby blur.
“Nasiri?” Osmun asked, barely forming the word.
“You’re safe now. I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up. Or if you’d wake up.”
“I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” Myron’s voice came from nearby.
“I was enjoying a dream,” Osmun said, the words coming slowly, “where you were nowhere to be found.”
“Nothing wrong with his memory,” Myron muttered.
“What happened?” Osmun asked.
“Why don’t you tell us?” Nasiri said. Her voice was soft and concerned. “We were watching you from atop the wall. We saw you run out of the tower and then collapse.”
“I don’t remember… I remember climbing the wall…but after that, I can’t think of anything.”
“Probably for the best,” Myron said. “At least partly. We had to hoist you up the wall and over the side. It was rather…… undignified. It also explains the pain I’m guessing you’re feeling right now.”
“What explains it?”
“Suffice to say, it was not a gentle landing on the outside of the wall.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
Osmun tried to sit up, but a dozen different aches pushed him back down at once. “By the Beacon, I feel like I’ve broken something.”
“Sit back,” Nasiri said. “You probably have a few broken ribs from when Myron dropped you.”
“Nasiri!” Myron exclaimed. “Did you need to tell him?”
“Just stay still,” Nasiri said, ignoring Myron’s complaint. “You’ll need time to heal.”
“Wait…What of the Untranslated Tome?” Osmun suddenly remembered his entire reason for going there and tried to sit up again, and again was kept in place by his injuries. “Do I have it?” Nasiri nodded, and the relief of knowing did something to ease the pain in his bones.
“So, you don’t remember anything?” Myron pressed. “You don’t remember being in the Compendium? You don’t remember getting past the guards inside the tower?”
“No. Nothing.” Osmun tried thinking back, trying to find a fragment from the night before, but it was as though someone had smeared the ink of those pages; all that was there was an indecipherable blur.
“The absence of memory is caused by too much of the sleep root,” Myron said.
“That’s why I decided to use it,” Osmun said. “So that the guards wouldn’t remember me… but I can’t even think of how I used it.”
“You must have taken some yourself,” Nasiri said as she stood, walking to take a pot of boiling water away from the wood stove.
Osmun rubbed his eyes. “That’s nonsense. Why would I do that?”
Myron hopped off his stool. “I was wondering the same thing. If you happen to remember, do tell us. I’d be interested to know why I had to risk my life to get you outside of the walls, and I’d be comforted to know it wasn’t just because you needed a nap.”
“You could have just taken the book,” Osmun said, the thought only then occurring to him. “Why didn’t you just take the book and leave me there?” Looking at the wooden beams on the ceiling, he did not see Myron cast Nasiri an uneasy look.
“We had an agreement,” Nasiri said. “It was right to honour it.” She poured them each a cup of tea, and knelt again beside Osmun to help him drink it.
“I suppose that is worth a few bruises,” he said.
“And broken bones,” Myron said flatly. “Don’t forget about those.”
“Enough, Myron,” Nasiri said.
“His hands aren’t broken, Nasiri. Let him drink his own tea.” Nasiri shook her head at Myron but said nothing. Myron gave her a humourless look before he climbed the stairs out of the basement.
“He did want to leave me behind, didn’t he?” Osmun asked Nasiri when they were alone.
“He got you out.”
“At your insistence, I’m sure. It’s all right. I think I may have wanted to do the same, were I him.”
“Try to sleep. We’ll get started when you feel ready.”
“Get started… right.” The fog in Osmun’s head was still dissipating. “Have you… have you seen it? Since we left the tower?”
Nasiri set her empty cup on the floor. “Yes.”
Osmun winced at the word. “What does it want?”
“I don’t know, but it seems to have a particular interest in you.”
“You don’t sound very concerned.”
“Would you be concerned if you knew it would no longer trouble you? If someone else had to suffer its presence?”
“I would. Its presence demands my attention, no matter who is the subject of its torments. In a way, I am glad that it is me; I can withstand it. It has the most terrifying, unholy aspect to it, but I can endure it where others could not. I can endure hearing its voice… I can suffer through it all.” Osmun did not realize his hands had begun to shake and tears had begun to stream from his eyes. “I’m sorry…… I didn’t realize…”
“I hope you’re right,” Nasiri whispered. Osmun noticed her head was tilted towards the floor and her eyes were fixed on it. She would not look at him.
“It’s nearby,” he said.
“Yes. It’s here.”
It took tremendous effort, much more than he would have thought, to become less focused. Part of the trouble was staying on his feet. Osmun and Nasiri stood in the basement, Osmun leaning on a cane to help his swollen, sprained right ankle, but as he entered the meditative, trance-like state that allowed him to stand in the silhouette, he would begin to lose his balance, which brought him back, suddenly and painfully, to reality.
“This isn’t helping my bones heal,” Osmun said as Nasiri helped him back to his feet. “Are you sure we can’t do this sitting down?”
“We could,” Nasiri said, “but we won’t. Creating an opening to the Beyond is one feat, but you have to hold it steady, keep control. If you don’t, you risk turning a pinprick into a gaping wound. How do you intend to exercise control over a rift, and over this… thing…… if you can’t even keep yourself
standing?”
“A few more falls and I’m afraid I’ll shatter,” Osmun said as he winced and held his side. Earlier he had looked under his shirt to see that the left side of his torso looked like someone had painted it the most sickly shades of brown and blue, and yet, despite that, he still thought it did not look as bad as it felt.
“Get rid of the cane,” Nasiri said.
“You can’t be serious. Where’s Myron? Can’t I lean on him?”
“He’s outside, somewhere. Just making sure that we’re not causing a disturbance.” Nasiri looked at the staircase before whispering, “And he hates this.”
“Hates it?”
“He doesn’t like being around this… the other world. The Beyond.”
“He’s an odd partner for someone like you to have,” Osmun said. “I hope I’m not out of place saying so, but I’m sure I’m not the first to think it.”
Nasiri’s back stiffened. “Without him, I would be found out as a defiler of your faith. When in the city, I have to pass by unnoticed. But he can go anywhere, talk to anyone, so that I don’t have to.”
“And what do you do for him?”
“Now you are out of place.”
“After what I did for you I think a few questions are not too much to ask,” Osmun said, leaning on his good leg.
“Typical Trueborn arrogance. We made an agreement, and because you’ve fulfilled your part of it does not mean you are entitled to anything else until I fulfill my part. Don’t push me, or I’ll push you. And your balance is terrible.”
Osmun shifted his balance uneasily, and the pain flared throughout his body, as if to agree with the seer.
“Then I shall hold my tongue. You have my apologies,” he said.
“I don’t want your apologies. I want your attention. I want you to learn this so that our arrangement is complete and I can be done with you.” She turned away from Osmun. “Get rid of the cane and hold my hand.”
