The Ossard Series (Books 1-3): The Fall of Ossard, Ossard's Hope, and Ossard's Shadow.

by Colin Taber

  Could it give him back his freedom?

  At first, all he seemed to achieve was to gag and wretch, but after persevering, he did find some loose stones, though nothing he could work with. The tunnel’s width was too narrow to host his shoulders, though he continued to explore its depths. Still, fumbling about, he finally found something useful, something cold and hard and wedged into a gap in the stonework. He knew the feel; worked metal.

  He yanked at it hard with slick fingers and eventually pulled it free. Carefully running his fingers over it in the dark, he knew that he’d discovered a small blade, one that seemed to be in reasonable keep. He supposed that it’d been secreted there by one of the cell’s previous occupants. Regardless, it remained sharp and was now his.

  Something moved further down the drain’s slope to distract him, but it wasn’t something he felt. He couldn’t see anything, of course, just hear a rustle and natter – rats.

  Ignoring them, Sef went back to working at the loose stones he’d found, but to no avail. They were loose, it was true, and they could move a little, but he wasn’t able to pull enough of them free.

  His efforts were interrupted by a broken voice begging from the dark, “Are you... are you there, or have I been dreaming?” It was his neighbour.

  Sef got up and took off his shirt to wipe his hands and arms clean. “I’m here, my friend. Rest easy.”

  He went back to the cell bars to reach out into the dark for his friend’s hand. Finding it, he gave it a squeeze. “How do you feel?”

  Soft laughter came in answer, also laced with surprise. “I don’t believe it; you’re a good healer, for I feel much better than when we first met.”

  “I’m glad, for I don’t want to be left alone in a place like this.”

  His friend yawned, and that of all things was a good sign. “Oh, I don’t know, believe it or not I’ve been in worse places.”

  “Surely not?” Sef said in surprise, the words making him wonder at who his friend might be. The sound of his hoarse and sleep-heavy voice stirred memories, but such thoughts were extinguished by another noise; the click and clunk of a heavy lock as it turned over.

  An amber line of light appeared beneath the door at the end of the corridor beyond their bars. Sef whispered, “They come!” The two men, still unseen by each other, continued to hold hands as they waited.

  The door groaned open on heavy bolts to reveal a lamp that blazed in front of a party of men.

  Sef’s eyes were slow to adjust to the painfully bright light, leaving him to squint. He could see little of the men coming in, or his surroundings, just the bars in front of him and the stone of the floor.

  A man stepped forward and unlocked the barred door to his cell. It screamed open. Two men then came in and grabbed him, seeing his grip on his friend’s hand strain before finally breaking.

  Sef called, “Farewell, my friend!”

  “And you, I owe you my life!”

  The grim men about them burst out laughing.

  Sef was then taken away.

  Chapter 3

  -

  Marco’s Ruin

  -

  We passed the first half of the day making our ascent up the ridgeside on its zigzagging path, not that I knew it at the time. It wasn’t until Pedro woke me at midday that I discovered it, and that we’d stopped atop the ridgeline where the road travelled east for a good while.

  The stop gave us a chance to have our people together, if still strung out. With over ten thousand of us, we were hard to fit into any single space, let alone one stretched along a road that twisted as it made its way up and down to join two of the Northcountry’s vales.

  Baruna had called the stop because of a leading cart with a broken axle, but it was a break embraced by all who’d endured so much chaos in past days. Now, having escaped Ossard, our initial relief was fading, and with it the energy that had seen us keep up such a strong pace.

  I opened the door and, while still tired, was quick to jump down. Maria needed help, and after her my husband, a big man who despite my healing had a way to go before he completed his return to full health. Pedro turned and helped his parents down, both unsteady on their feet. And then all of us, with Maria wrapping her arms around my legs, turned to take in the view.

  The scene was stunning, as if we stood atop the world.

  The spine of the ridge wasn’t wide, but in a couple of places had been worked to make room for campsites and such. Beside the trail the ridge fell away, the southern side dropping at a steep angle into the Cassaro Valley almost half a day’s descent below. The northern slope fell a little more gently, and was also graced with a few spaces where the switchback trail widened. Such places were marked by granite outcroppings, where the bones of the ridge broke through. At the bottom of the northern slope sparkled the dark waters of the sea – the start of the valley proper was still a full day’s march eastward.

  Both ridgeside slopes were grassed and fit only for grazing, a stubble of colouring perennials growing here and there, marked by the season’s change. The green and gold carpet was broken by the occasional outcrop of granite, thicket of oleander, and finally, in one place, the four so recently risen rosetrees. Even from a distance, they stood to be impressive in their stark and deep colours. But down in the Cassaro, that wasn’t the only thing to be seen.

  Far below, passing along the valley road, was a darker line than its faded grey; the Loyalists. They marched organised and on their way.

  But who knew where?

  Behind them, on the western horizon, lay the dark of the Northern Sea. Ossard itself couldn’t be seen, nor Goldston, both lost amidst the valley’s gentle curves and the lingering smoke haze and distance.

  The grey skies to the northwest reminded me of the coming of winter, them loaded with heavy clouds. Where we were left us very exposed. As if to emphasise the point, a blustering breeze found us.

  Our march had a good way to go. Two more days of being in the open would push us, and if it rained as the dark skies hinted, we’d probably endure more grief. As I contemplated that the chill wind died. For a moment, a blessed and still moment, it left the sun free to warm my skin.

  My people were crowded along the ridge-top trail, yet up here we stood above most of the lingering smoke and surrounded by an invigorating view. Still, we could only afford to stop for a short while: We needed to get down into the beginnings of the next sound before nightfall, with time to set up against whatever the weather chose to throw at us.

  Looking at the long spread of our crowd, I could only wonder; would Marco’s Ruin be big enough for all of us?

  Lady Liberigo called out to interrupt my thoughts, “Come Juvela, come and join us.” She was sitting with her husband and Pedro, where she’d put a blanket down on the fading autumn grass.

  Pedro said, “Maria, come to Papa.”

  Letting go of my leg, she ran across and fell into his arms.

  He laughed and then looked to me, “You too, my wife.”

  I went across and sat with him, smiling, but also unable to take my eyes from the view. To the east rose the distant mountains of the interior, snowcapped and rugged. They were a wondrous sight.

  Lord Liberigo looked to me. “Perhaps now’s the time for the telling of what’s happened in recent days?”

  I bowed my head. “Lord and Lady...”

  He interrupted, “Juvela, I think the time for such titles has passed, not only do we no longer hold them, but you seem more worthy. Please, call me Silva and my wife Angela.”

  Pedro put a gentle hand to my back, stroking it. The feeling of it – of him and his affections – stirred my blood. None of his old fears showed through.

  Could such a thing last?

  Every word of my retelling would weaken his affections and arouse his old fears. Should I tell them everything? I didn’t want to jeopardise his trust or his emerging feelings. In truth, at that very moment, I felt hungrier for his love than for souls.

  Perhaps they could both
be addictions?

  After a moment of consideration, I knew what I had to do: I’d tell them the truth. In the end, despite any damage it might bring, that was the world we had to live in. “I guess the best place to start is at the moment of your kidnappings.”

  Angela lost her smile at the memory, but it was the place to start.

  I heard a noise behind me. Turning, I saw Baruna. “Is there anything more you need?”

  I smiled. “Please, sit with us and help in the telling of all that’s happened.”

  She looked at my company; my husband and daughter, and Ossard’s former Lady and Lord.

  I insisted, “Please, so much has happened. I’d hate to leave anything important out.”

  With a shy smile, she nodded and sat beside me.

  I told them of all that had happened; of my search for them, of the Inquisitor’s proclamation of a pious empire, the happenings at the Opera House, and the declaration of Kave as a fourth saint. I went on with the attempt on the Inquisitor’s life, and of Kurgar’s involvement in the kidnappings. It took all of the time that we sat there in the sun, and much of our descent down the northern ridge. I finished up by speaking of those following me, but didn’t say much, for I still found that difficult to speak of.

  In the coach, Silva asked, “So Kurgar is Lord of Ossard, a city wasted and razed. And all this has happened so he can use it as a larder from which to feed its souls to his dark gods as he builds it into a fortress for those same powers?”

  “Yes, Ossard’s lost, possibly beyond anything we can reclaim.”

  Silva scowled, “And, most likely, Inquisitor Anton with it. Him and his fellow black robes achieved nothing!”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps they just arrived too late.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, until Angela asked, “So, help will come from Lae Wair-Rae?”

  I shook my head. “We’ve been told that it’ll be Heletian, probably led by the Inquisition, and from the whole of the League. Should it fail, that’s when the Lae Velsanans will sail to liberate Ossard.”

  “What then?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Angela sat as she shed slow tears. “Who could imagine a city so strong falling so quickly. Even if we win it back, from what you say, I wonder if there will be anything left?”

  “I wonder the same thing.”

  My husband whispered. “It’s a tragedy.”

  Angela murmured her agreement.

  Silva looked to me and said, “Juvela, I’ll do what I can to help you. You have my aid and influence, whatever remains of it.”

  -

  That night we camped by a series of caves and overhangs where the ridgeside fell away and into the sea. There was little in the way of beach where the two met, just a bank of gravel and rock. All in all it was a night that would test us as the rain began to fall, backed by a chill wind.

  People sought out whatever shelter they could, for the rain grew to be bitter and hard. Once the cover amongst the caves and rocks was taken, people filled the coaches and carts, including the sheltered spaces under and beside them. The unlucky made do with cloaks and canvas.

  Finally, that long night of cold and wet misery gave way to a grey dawn, something defined by a drizzling mist. Glum and subdued, we readied ourselves and took back to the road.

  By noon, we began passing what would eventually be the valley’s partnering ridge. The rugged headland, rising just off shore, marked our entry into the sound proper.

  Not long after, we could see the green pastures of the valley at last come into view at the distant end of the sound. At the northern end of a long beach stood the pale lines of what had to be the ruin.

  Each moment we drew closer revealed more of the ruin and its solid and mighty spread. Some of the walls – as Felmaradis had said – plunged straight down into the waters of the sound. From those wet roots, the ruin looked to step back into the northern side of the vale as a series of squat terraces.

  Large and impressive, it was more than a lost fort, but only tomorrow would tell us more. I was just glad that we’d found it.

  Whatever it had once been...

  The sight of it also helped lift our peoples’ spirits.

  At sunset, the clouds parted to see the valley ahead bathed in golden light – not just the beach, but the ruin and the rising hills behind. Those distant pastures were a rich and lush green, but haunted by pale banks of mist. Far beyond rose the mountains, their heights capped with snow to gleam golden. The ruin itself took on ruddy tones in the day’s dying light. It was beautiful.

  Instead of rushing to set up camp, we all stopped to take in the view. It was a wonder, and in it I found great mystery: The ruins were more than weathered stone. Something was there, a presence, something lingering from the past.

  I could feel it.

  That night we built fires from driftwood and brush, and by their flaring light warmed ourselves against the cold. The magic of the sunset lived on; in good spirits, some sang and danced, while others told tales to crowding audiences. It was a good night to mark the end of a hard day, but one that remained full of hope – for tomorrow we would enter Marco’s Ruin.

  -

  Dawn saw our people rested and renewed. With only half a day’s trek ahead of us, we took our time in rising as the more industrious prepared simple breakfasts of porridge and stale bread to share.

  I rose quickly, but found myself plagued by a chorus of aches. After trying to stretch out the worst of these, a set of deepening cramps, I had to give up and settle for sitting down with a blanket cast over my shoulders against the cool.

  All about me, I heard the giving of thanks with voice and laughter as people readied themselves for what would be such an important day. Everyone celebrated it seemed but me, for I was secretly becoming lost under a rising tide of suffering.

  Something was wrong...

  A little while later, Pedro, Maria, Baruna and Kurt all sat about me as they ate and talked. I added what I could, but for the most part kept to myself while I toyed with a cooling serve of porridge.

  My chorus of aches and cramps was only growing.

  I was sick...

  That was when I found myself staring at my tremoring hands, them clutching at spoon and bowl. The movement was slight, but worsening.

  All of it put me in a brittle mood, one that forced me, moment by moment, to become more withdrawn. Such a thing only seemed to dampen the joy of those around me. Finally, after one too many concerned glances, I rose and asked Pedro and Baruna to join me.

  With our rising, others made to follow, but I waved them down.

  I turned for our coach, determined to reach it despite a growing tremor in my legs.

  I didn’t speak again until I stood at the coach’s door. Pedro reached across to open it, and then helped Baruna and myself up. He climbed in afterwards and moved to shut it, only to have it pulled out of his hand as Silva also made to join us.

  Pedro turned to me.

  I nodded. It didn’t matter, not that much. I wouldn’t be speaking with any of them for long.

  I sat with Baruna beside me while Pedro moved to make room for his father who was now climbing in. As we settled amidst a grave air, Silva asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Please, draw the curtains.” My quaking voice drew more concern.

  “Juvela?” Pedro asked, his hands reaching out for my own.

  I sighed at his touch – there was power there, like a cool and soothing balm. It felt familiar, perhaps just the residue of what I’d spent on healing him, but it wasn’t enough to do anything more than soften the edge of my own hurts.

  Still, that relief was something...

  I blinked back tears. “I’m glad that we’ve nearly reached Marco’s Ruin, and for the rest of the journey I must ask you all to help direct our people there.”

  Pedro gasped. “You’re not coming?”

  I shook my head, the sudden movement seeing me wince. “I’ll be coming.” I paused, ch
oosing my next words carefully, “I’ve been changed by all that’s happened, and some of those changes have left me drained. I need to rest, and in that you must respect my wishes.”

  Pedro’s hands squeezed my own, the pressure again softening my pain. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

  The others nodded.

  I went on, “Baruna, please ride with Kurt so that I can call upon you if need be.”

  She nodded.

  “Silva, travel by whatever means you can, whether it be on another coach or cart, or on foot. You need to take this opportunity to be seen amongst our people and to become part of our community.”

  Silva said, “Of course, Angela and I’ll also call upon your own parents to see how they fare.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pedro rubbed my hands, the movement sending soothing waves out along my forearms and wrists. Like a salve it smothered my aches. “And what of me, my wife?”

  I tried to smile, but even such a simple thing began to hurt. “You, my husband, I want beside me for a while – until I need to be alone.”

  He nodded.

  “Please then, if you can all leave me but Pedro, and share the care of Maria until he returns to you.”

  Baruna asked, “And what should we tell the people?”

  “Just tell them that I rest after our escape.”

  They nodded and left.

  Pedro closed the door behind them, and then moved to sit beside me while pulling me close. His touch again soothed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Pedro, I love you.”

  He held me tighter, his hands stroking me. “And I you. I owe you everything dear to me, our marriage, daughter, my freedom, and even my life. Yet all I have ever given you is suffering.”

  “No!”

  He pulled back a little, but still had his arms about me. “I raped you and dragged you into a darkness that no one should ever know.”

  “And it’s forgiven: Despite its strange roots, the night of our meeting gave us our marriage, daughter, and even each other. Lose your guilt.”