by Damien Lake
Bayonne and Cherrad had helped him conceal the decorations in a shallow grave dug through the frozen ground with their stinging fingertips the day after they had been herded like cattle to this lonely camp. None could guess what these strange savages would do with them except Adrian would certainly garner special interest if they came to recognize the prize they had captured.
He was one soldier among many, older than most though clearly still a capable campaigner. Every man imprisoned with him were under orders to treat him simply as one of their own. It may make no difference depending on the fate planned for them as a whole, yet the old saying stated that the gods only helped those who worked hard to help themselves before imploring for intervention. Sooner or later there might arise an opportunity they could take advantage of.
Adrian and his men would deal with it if it came. He trusted them to act as professionals, as warriors befitting the seasoning they had undergone during their campaigns with him against wild Taurs and equally wild Tillsar natives. This kingdom, which had hardly any experience with warfare during the last few centuries according to his analysts, should be unfamiliar with such matters as prisoner transport. There existed a possibility that any procedures they employed would be rife with mistakes. His men would not let their fall prevent them from taking advantage of any such opening when one appeared.
Concerns for a later time. The witching hours were upon him and hopeful wishing would only deepen his depression if an escape opportunity failed to arise after all.
Fight your best fight, and never give in until the end.
How very odd. That was the only advice gran had ever gifted him with that he whole-heartedly agreed with. He was a soldier to the core. Adrian understood about never giving up.
What happened to me? Surely something calamitous must have befallen me for everything to have transpired as it has. Yet my memories are scattered and my recall of the time is fading by the moment.
Adrian distantly remembered walking endlessly, marching in a limitless darkness that put the night surrounding him to shame. Every day those memories faded, losing any meaning they might contain and melting into the forgotten recesses where all dreams petered away.
And yet, clearly he had never left. He had remained with his men, issuing orders, making decisions. How could he have done so much while retaining no recollection of it?
Was he slipping into madness? His actions were without question contrary to his nature. The orders sheer insanity. Reinstating Colonels Harbon and Mendell nothing short of incredulous, let alone entrusting them with the authority to command the army’s major elements.
The fact that those two were so closely tied to his aberrant actions made him suspicious. Except, easy as it would be to place the blame on them, it left as many questions unresolved. He well remembered Mendell’s keen interest in the forest of the Rovasii, on whose border Adrian had regained his senses, and Mendell’s pique at being denied authority to investigate those woods. That surely must be why the forces had struck hard to the south after crossing into Galemar.
But why this foreign forest was of such importance to the colonel remained a mystery beyond his comprehension. It made no sense. Risking the lives of every Arronathian soldier to seize woodlands of no strategic value? The worst of the criminally incompetent officers would need to be excessively deluded to order such.
As much as he would like to believe those two vipers were responsible for his mental malaise, the question remained what exactly could they have done to him? No poisons or chemicals familiar to him could have reduced his mind to rubbish while leaving him, for all appearances to his men, whole and sane. Any magics approaching the manipulation of the mind were wholly anathema in Arronath. If they were willing to go so far in their disregard for morality, where had they found a mage capable of the feat? Try as he might to remember the last clear moments before his slip into the depthless dark, he could only picture the two of them entering his office in Kallied.
They had been alone. No third party, no possible user of proscribed magics, accompanied them.
Blaming them only explained a handful of the facts. Too much remained veiled from his knowledge. All he had were suspicions without basis, circumstantial evidence relying solely on what he knew of their foul nature.
Jide had wanted to expunge them from the ranks by whatever means he could devise. Adrian still found the idea repulsive, after the many years he had labored with the one-eyed man to purge such corruption from the Armed Forces. Shivering in the dark and the cold, worms of hindsight relentlessly burrowed at his thoughts.
Would it have come to pass if I’d granted him free rein to deal with Harbon and Mendell as he wished to? Or would that not have made the slightest difference in the end, only sparking the rebirth of underhanded career maneuvering in my army?
Unanswerable, the questions and self-doubts made him want to sink onto the cold earth and sleep forever. The witching hours were indeed upon him.
Adrian could do nothing. Nothing. He was a prisoner. His men and command had been cast down. Inevitably he would be brought before the Council of Kings to receive wrath made all the fiercer for his actions against them. Their contemptuous treatment of the messengers sent to them years before in hopes of fostering new bonds after being so long separated from their ancient allies across the sea promised that his eventual fate would be harsh and drawn out.
Forward or back, no matter where he looked, he saw only shadows and mystery. He felt the cold of winter’s soul settling ever deeper into his heart.
* * * * *
“What in the blinking shit are you telling me?” Jide tightened his hold on the bunched uniform shirt belonging to a startled over-captain, pulling the man forward to a point only inches from his stubbley face. His coarse cheeks, angry breath and worn eye-patch all promised retribution. The soldiers shrugged off dire threats from others as being merely the typical bullying of superior officers…but never with Jide. When Jide promised to break the neck of a man, anyone with experience treated the words as writ in stone.
The over-captain left in charge of the western camp at the base of the Stoneseams took a single breath as a prelude to stepping back from Jide’s furious countenance. He meant to extricate his uniform from his junior’s grip by doing so, and was unnerved further when Jide maintained his hold.
“I only know what I know. Which isn’t much,” the man offered, striving to maintain a calm air. “Word is still filtering in. But it seems clear enough that the strike forces have been obliterated.”
“What about the general?” Jide barked, spraying the over-captain’s face with spittle. “He must have escaped to bring back word!”
“No one knows what happened to the general. We’ve been told that he’s likely fallen in combat. I’ve been sending troops through the pass to the eastern side, following instructions, and until we’ve quelled the resistance, we’ll never reclaim the site of the battle and learn for certain.”
Jide demanded, “If Adrian’s kicked over, who’s been giving you your orders?”
“Colonel Mendell. He escaped the battle and has been directing the subjugation of the lands across the mountains.”
“Mendell?” At that, Jide released the man’s uniform. The over-captain stepped back a pace and tugged at his shirt with dignity to smooth out the wrinkles. “What about Harbon?”
“Colonel Harbon is also listed as missing, likely fallen.” A sullen gaze emitted from the man who did not quite dare tell Jide off. Any other supply master who dared speak to an over-captain in such a fashion, let alone the manhandling, would find himself under army arrest so quickly his clothing was left behind. Given Jide’s reputation and sheer presence, the superior officer thought it would be wise to leave well enough alone.
When Jide remained silent within his own thoughts, the over-captain tried to end the matter and send Jide on his way by saying, “Your regiments went through the pass two days ago. They will have drawn fresh supplies from the town where the eastern camp
is based and moved on, but your wagons will do well to restock the camp’s stores. You can make your way to the resting area easily through the dark, as there are no obstructions.”
Jide cast his sharpened glare on the man, edged enough to cut glass with. “I have brought these wagons through snow and ice in a timely manner that the regiments I am charge with supplying may have the use of my provisions. This they will have, or I will express my displeasure.”
The over-captain nodded as if to say it was of no consequence to him. Suppliers and quartermasters were all crazy in the first place.
“Is Mendell at this town?”
“I doubt it,” the over-captain replied. “I hear he’s been riding from dawn to dusk everyday to ensure the lands are secure. He’s been waiting for the Citadel to arrive so we can make use of whatever reinforcements are still stationed there. At the least, the Wyverflies will be able to sortie properly.”
“Small good those gnats can do without a proper plan to use them,” Jide growled.
“It’s a question of whether the Citadel arrives first, or if the new commander beats it here. Given the mages in the Citadel since we came to this barbarian land, no one can say for sure. The colonel demands status reports every time he returns to the eastern camp.”
Jide’s face shot up. “New commander? Burn it, what do you mean by that?”
The venom in his voice startled the other man. His composure suffered. “Word came in through one of the mages. Obviously they had to report to the king what happened, what with the general falling in battle. King Lambert appointed a new commander for the Armed Forces to take General Adrian’s place.”
“What about the burning chain of command?”
A shrug from the over-captain greeted Jide’s angry shout. “The king wants a man he can trust to take over the campaign.”
“Trust? How many campaigns did Adrian organize in Arronath? How many years of service?”
“None of that matters if the man is dead. The new commander is coming over as we speak on a ship, with geomancers to ensure they arrive without being swallowed by the ocean’s temper.”
“Who in hells could possibly be a better commander than Adrian? Tell me that!”
“That advisor who’s helped the king lately. The one they say can tell you anything about anything.”
Jide’s blood chilled. “Xenos?”
“Aye, that’s the one.”
His back stiffened while he glared at the man. The over-captain returned the look, failing to match the steel. He resembled a mouse in a corner, staring defiantly at a hungry cat.
With a whirl, Jide strode back to his wagons. He berated himself silently the entire way. The news that Adrian had fallen in battle had hit him hard, cracking his usual reserve and deliberate mannerisms, making him say more than he should have. It would not do for people to realize that Adrian was anything to him other than just another officer. That the general made use of him as a capable sparring partner, thus granting Jide cushy privileges and access to plunders that would normal have been beyond his reach, was the image they both wanted everyone to see when they looked upon the bandit. For all appearances, Adrian should be nothing except a gold mine to him.
Perhaps his unseemly show would be passed off as that. As a man upset that his coin cow had died.
Presumed lost, Jide mentally barked harshly. If there were any chances a bastard like Adrian was still alive, that man would surely find them. Over the long haul to reach the mountains he had grown increasingly certain that an ill wind blew around Adrian’s ankles. The general’s actions were too unprecedented, the company keeping with him too likely to use a man rather than work honestly toward their goals.
The worst trouble of all is the kind where you can’t call for help. Whatever sort of trouble that might be when Adrian could still clearly move about as he saw fit, Jide remained mystified about. But it felt right, damn it all! His every instinct told him it was so, or something close enough to make no never-mind.
And Xenos coming across the ocean to assume command over the army? Jide’s teeth ground tightly at the very notion while he climbed back onto the seat beside the wagon driver. Wasn’t that flaming convenient? Especially with Xenos’ protégé making a massive effort to secure the lands he had taken a special interest in before Adrian had yanked him back into line.
He grunted sourly at the lead cart’s driver. After so many weeks of close proximity, his driver correctly interpreted the curdled noise to mean, ‘get this pile of rotten firewood moving before I make you haul these crates on your own back’.
The wagons, in need of minor repairs by the dozens after their hard journey at the relentless pace Jide demanded, bumped and rocked jarringly over the pass’ uneven flooring. A steep grade led upward into the mountains. They would begin the true portage through the pass on the morning. Only minutes from where the over-captain had intercepted them lay the last soft dirt fields of the lower elevations. His drivers disliked driving their horses over unfamiliar territory in the dark nearly as much as the laboring beasts. Jide almost hoped one of the animals would break an ankle in a jagged crack so he would have an excuse to return and shred the over-captain alive.
This situation was souring with increasing rapidity. Jide smelled double-dealing and backroom scheming even if he had no clear picture of whose hand shook whose yet. He trusted his instincts. After all, he was a bloodhound with a nose keyed for embezzlement, graft and the minor coups used by petty officers to advance their careers. His back hairs were spiked and his nose had long since begun to twitch.
Someone had set private plans into motion. The most likely candidates for that were Mendell and Harbon, who had won their positions through Xenos’ influence. Adrian’s sudden absence cleared the way for Xenos to step in and take hold of the reins. Whatever plans they were about, it boded no good for anyone.
Jide knew one thing with absolute certainty as his caravan entered the flat grounds they would shelter upon until the dawn. His ‘absences’ had become accepted by the army drones surrounding him. They each assumed he snuck off to ply his trade and arrange for valuable gear to become wealth in his pockets. He would use their misappraisals as he had in the past, leaving him free to travel as he needed after he asked questions in the eastern camp.
One way or the other, he needed to find what had become of Adrian.
* * * * *
Frost had crystallized on the soft pink petals of the moonflower overnight, Thomas noticed. The silky petals and bright silvery pollen displayed no indications that their diamond encasement affected their thriving growth. That surely meant the spring thaws had begun in the outer forest.
The freeze would pass by mid-morning, to be replaced by the swelter of high summer. At nightfall, the air would either cool to a pleasant temperature or else swing to an extreme of hot or cold. Heat had dominated the last six evenings. They were due for a few days of winter. Yet frost never formed in this particular area except as it faded and fled from the lands outside the Rovasii.
Springtime.
Thomas continued after taking brief note of the frosted flower. It was only worth a moment’s attention. Of all the sealed areas, this was the least, hardly more dangerous than the normal stretches of deep forest, its phenomena only useful for teaching purposes in training new Guardian recruits.
Such classes seemed as much a part of the past as his own days of bygone youth. Since the slaughter of the village, the remaining three Guardians had attempted to train two youths in the ways of their profession. Neither had proven to contain the steel needed by the highest of the high, the best of the best.
The sole instruction Thomas now gave was to the village’s survivors, on how to exist within and deal with the strangeness of this unnatural area. It had been hard on them, especially for the still wounded amongst their number most of all, yet they adapted as they knew they must. Within the sealed grounds formerly used as a training area, they slowly pieced their lives back together.
Regardless of
the time since the attack, a thousand tasks still needed seeing to despite their relatively small number. Thomas passed a group who were busy curing meat to be stored for the coming months of off-season cold that would plague them until mid-summer. Two women tested several piles of owlcrest fruits to see if the cores were healthy red, or if the plants had spawned a poisonous crop with purple centers this time, as they were wont to do without warning. The owlcrests would store well for months provided they were safe to consume.
Perhaps the change that tested the non-Guardian survivors most was simply living on the ground. The men and women had walked between the massive Euvea roots often enough in their lives, but lived most of the time in the tree-borne buildings of their ancestral village. They had cobbled together shelter from what materials they dared scavenge from the ruins or collected from the surrounding forest. After the years, those constructions had been improved upon until genuine buildings stood scattered about the sealed area.
Thomas hopped over a knot of creeper vines that grew thickly around one tree. They had spread along the ground in search of other trunks. Nearby, a great cave-like hole marked where an ancient tree had fallen many years past, the forest giant ripping a rent in the earth as it took the ball of its roots with it during the topple. The hole, once discovered by the survivors, offered possibilities. One of their many projects had involved digging back the pit’s walls, making it wider and deeper until the original hole formed a descending doorway into a room suitable for storage.
