by Travis Perry
“Certainly, my Lord. Are you to meet the King of Tharsis on the way then? I saw your messengers come through. How many troops did our Lord the King commit to the battle?”
“None, Jonthan. The Govnors of Biblis and Ulysses Patera regard an attack on Olympus as madness. Without their support the king decided it would be better not to commit any of his riders from Tharsis Tholus.”
The Lefthander’s eyes widen. “Pardon this rider to say so, but how will you face the seven hundred Olympians with just the few we have?”
“The Lord Jesu Christu will ride with us as we face the heretic king. He calls on us to show boldness for righteousness’ sake. I am certain of that.”
“How is it the word of our king is not honored, my Lord? The govnors report to him. Why are they defying his wishes?”
“The other govments of Tharsis to our south grow strong. They desire to be kingdoms themselves. Which is why your men are to close off this ramp after we pass through, ‘less one of my fellow govnors see my absence as an opportunity to expand his holdings. Raise a rock wall here. Ensure the hands holding the south and west approaches do the same. In my absence, you will lead the forces that protect this govment.”
“Kay, my Lord,” answers Jonthan, his voice husky, his eyes lowered.
Now we number fifty-four riders as we take the etched switchbacks descending the sharply sloped cliff to the plain below our vast mountain. The three vertical kims take us all day to pass down, with the riders in front and the hands and travel wagons coming up behind. I am at the very front of the formation, because I know the best campment sites along the Pilgrim Road, which lies just past the bottom of the ramp we all descend. I feel a secret thrill to be first, a joy that my origin as a plainsman is for once an advantage.
I select a site not far from the lake below the Espiritu waterfall, which drops straight down off a three kim high spur of the mountain’s flank, a falling cloud of white, which lands in more of a pattering mist than the thunderous roar of other falls. Here the horses can drink and our travel caskets be refilled. Plenty of forage around the pool will allow the hands to gather for the horses to feed them after they’ve been put up in the horse canopies for the night. Plus I know the pool of water itself helps a bit to ward off the cold of the night.
I select tent sites for the hands, parkings for the wagons, a small crater for the cook pit, another on the opposite side for latrine dumpings. My horse, Gallant, begins to sweat as I ride about. He instinctively slows to a walk, but I push him, my heels prodding his sides. Our time is short. The temperature must be nearly forty at this elevation and time of day, warmer than I’ve been for several cycles, the air thick compared to the caldera rim. How did I ever endure such blazing heat?
Even with everything planned in advance, there is barely enough time to set the tents before sunset comes. I know that usually on this road, night frosts come straight after the sun hides itself from the sky. But the summer day is so warm that the first of the night proves to drop perhaps only ten degrees within the first ten minutes. Perhaps it would take as much as two hours to go down another thirty to zero, the freezing point of water. It could perhaps be as warm as only minus twenty by sunrise.
Laughter of hands fills the air as I ride Gallant on a final circuit of the campment, him lathering now. My experience on the road taught me that such after-dark heat emboldens thieves to the point they might dare exit the warmth of a night tent to steal from helpless pilgrims on the way. But our site, as prime as it is, appears to have no other travelers in the area, no one for me to keep watch on.
This is not entirely a surprise. Most of the pilgrims along the road always came from Olympus. Now that the heretic king has forbidden the Pilgrimage, the road certainly will have far fewer travelers. I give Gallant to Roger, the hand in charge of the horse tent. I normally would care for his brushing and drying myself, but the command had come from my lord for me to hit my night tent before frost falls. I walk across marvelously still unfrozen short grasses in the relatively thick warm air to the entrance of the tent of common riders which I’d been assigned to.
“Evan, a word?” Lord Pederson calls my name from in front of his tent, some five meters to the left of my path.
“Yes, Mister Govnor?” I raised my helmet visor in salute.
“Have you ever ridden north of the Pilgrim Road, up by Jovis Tholus?”
“I can’t say I have, my Lord. My duty was to the road itself.”
“Madam Susan tells me Olympus does have a north gate, though it’s rarely used. An old trail goes from the road up to that gate, so I’ve heard it told. Have you ever seen the trailhead?”
“I have not, lord sir. Can you show me by map where it might be?”
“Come, enter my tent.” I stride his way and the govnor actually holds the tent flap of woven goat wool open for me—me, a common rider. I feel a strange thrill to be so privileged as to step inside.
“Susan, can you produce a map of our route for Sir Evan here?”
Susan looks up from the low wooden table in the room, a lard-burning heat lamp on the table to her left, a box of parchment scrolls to her right. Susan is not my lord’s wife, nor is she a campment-follower, not that my lord has ever tolerated such women. She is a scribe and scholar, well-known among his riders as one of the chief advisors to the Govnor of Ascraeus. No one dares question his integrity that his relationship with Susan is anything other than what it seems. Besides, she is an older wise woman; he is tall and strong, his reddish hair streaked with white, still a powerful man in his forties, very devoted to his family, while she must be twenty years older and lives alone. Susan, by virtue of her power as a lithium smith, flicks on an ancient cold white light from the Time of Magic, one sustained by her mysterious skills at the lithium forge.
Two women younger than her but older than me are also there. Surprisingly. Though they are engaged in sewing thick cloth at a table behind Susan’s and pay little attention to me. A large thick bodied husky at the back of the tent raises his head and looks at me with a single intact eye. He pants as if not concerned about me in the slightest. The hands sometimes use dog sleds to cross the upper ice, but I don’t know why a such a dog would be here.
The silver-haired woman scholar selects a scroll and unrolls it on the table. I join her in examining this hand-penned document in blue, brown, red, green, and black ink under the glow of the ancient lantern, which has a metal base that leads up to a glowing white tube the length of my forearm. I have seen such magical light only twice previously in my life.
“You see,” she says, indicating with pointed finger. “As the road follows along the plain below Tharsis Montes to the southwest—the border of the realm of our lord the King of Tharsis, as you know—it connects with fossae oriented northwestward,” she looks up at me, “that means split ground, Evan, canyons, that go toward the southeast corner of Olympus, the most massive mountain ever known to exist anywhere in the entire system of Sol, even in the Time of Magic.”
“Yes, I’ve ridden this road many times. And I also have heard that no mountain was ever known to be taller than Olympus.”
“Very good,” she said, smiling at me. “Now, imagine a line—it is not indicated on the map—that goes from Jovis Tholus,” she points at a small marking on the map due east of and much smaller than the roughly circular outline of the supposed home of the “gods,” “on the east side of Olympus, down southeastward to a point on Tharsis midway between the Mons of Ascraeus and Pavonis. See where it would cross the Pilgrim Road?”
“Yes, my lady. I see it.”
Susan pinches my arm and smiles playfully. “I am no more a lady than you are, Evan. If you wish to address me with a title, you may call me ‘madam scholar’. But ‘ma’am’ is more than enough.”
“Yes, Madam Scholar Susan, I see it,” I reply, flushing with embarrassment, glancing at the younger women to see if they had noticed. Their faces show traces of smiles, but they keep their eyes lowered from me. I’ve never before b
een teased by any woman other than my own mother and that I can barely remember, because she died so long ago.
Susan chuckles warmly and adds, “Near that imaginary line is where the trailhead should be. It’s a puzzle to me why you haven’t ever seen it.”
“To me it’s no puzzle, my la—um, madam scholar. You see, there are many campment sites along the north edge of the Pilgrim Road. I have by no means occupied all of them. The trailhead could certainly shoot off one of those sites.”
“Ah, kay, thank you for that, Evan. We may have you scout for that trailhead when the time comes.”
“Is that all then, ma’am?”
Susan smiled at me. “Did you have something else to add, Evan?”
“Perhaps for my lord.” I glance over and notice Lord Pederson’s eyebrows raise in surprised expectation. I add, “Could you, uh, step outside with me, my lord?” His face shows puzzlement that I should make such a request, but he follows me out. Now I find it hard to speak.
A moment passes before the Govnor of Ascraeus prompts me. “Yes, Evan?”
“M-my lord, far be it from me to say so, but surely other…some others…in your tent may be somewhat of some concern…” My voice trails off.
“Some may be somewhat of some? Am I supposed to understand that?” His eyes stare at me in seriousness, but it seems there may be a twinkle in his eye. Or is that my imagination?
“I mean…the other two women, Mister Govnor,” I add, feeling miserable.
“Ah, I see. Don’t worry about that. They are with Susan, working a special project for her and she sees to their chastity. You’re not questioning the character of Madam Scholar Susan, are you?”
“Oh, no sir! Not of you either…nor the ladies, it’s just, um—”
“Appearances.”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
“Evan,” he clapped his broad strong hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate your courage in telling me your concern directly. Some men would have said nothing to me but then told everyone else. A man of God should be direct and truthful, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And should not go about spreading gossip that something may look bad, when in fact everything he needs to know has been explained to him?”
“N-no, he should not.”
“Very well, Evan, good night to you. I’m glad for the oath that brought a man of honor like you to find a place in my govment.”
With hardly a word more I stumbled back to my night tent, one I shared with five other junior riders.
Our next day’s journey brings us further east, at the end a good progress of fifty kims closer to the lowlands panning out immediately in front of Olympus. All of us suffer in the afternoon heat. The only good thing about the slope is we have a clear stream coming from the Aldrin pool higher up, following along the path, so there is plenty of water, allowing for trees and abundant green sage alongside our route to the left. We have to slow our pace and water our horses often, the ground curving downward the entire time as we leave the Tharsis high plain for what lies below it. The air becomes so thick it seems one could slice it with a knife. How could I have lived in such lowlands? I feel sad that being in the lead the day before is a thing of the past. I now am in the back, near the rear of the formation, forgotten. My efforts to help my fellow riders, to finally be truly received as one of them failing, for what reason I know not.
As we begin the night campment routine by picking a site, I see dust rising from the trail in front of us. I happened to be on the western edge of the camp and am one of the first to see it. It looks as if a number of riders are coming upward hard from the lower plain in front of us. I squint my eyes over the sharp light of the sun descending in the west. Yes, dust is rising from what must be ten or so horsemen. They are riding hard, as if they’ve spotted us.
“My lord!” I call out, looking behind me up the slope for Govnor Pederson. The rider on his right, Sir Isaac, scowls at me like I’ve done something wrong. The govnor has already seen. His horse is some thirty meters behind me and he holds up to his eyes a pair of powerful ancient magic called “binoculars.”
“Eleven riders, approaching fast!” He shouts out. “They port the banner of the King of Olympus. Isaac, I want to meet this with a show of peaceful force!”
Sir Isaac, at this side, begins calling out battle dispositions. “I want ten men to cross the stream! Sir Michael, take your squad, if you please. Hold them in reserve, ready to come in behind these riders!”
“Understood,” Michael replies. “Come on men, you are with me,” he calls this back to the men assigned to him, loud enough to be heard, but not really shouting. I had never been assigned to any of the squads, so I do not know what to do at this moment. Sir Michael calls out again, “Evan, you’re with me.” I thank the Lord Jesu for the kindness of letting me know what to do, giving me the chance to escape Sir Isaac’s scowl.
We ford the shallow stream on our left, our horse hooves clapping on the river rocks, pushing our way through the limited greenery around the steep slope. I hear other shouted orders from Michael: “Form a line along the river! A second line there. Sir George! Put your men on the left flank!”
I feel the pounding pulse of anticipation of battle. I force myself to breathe calmly and let the little shakes leave my hands.
The wait stretches long. I hear the voice of the chief of the hands, Sanchez, shouting to his men to set up tents behind our formation. I realize of course the wait is long. We saw the riders in the distance, from a higher elevation. They may have been ten kims off from us.
Perhaps half an hour passes. The sun hovers over the western horizon. A certain astonishment sweeps over me that these Olympians keep coming. Not that I can see them from behind the line of trees where I am, but I can see our Lord through a gap in tree branches and he can clearly see them, raising his binoculars from time to time. And a rider on the side of the forward line nearest the stream keeps calling out updates to Sir Michael in a low, strong voice.
I especially notice when he—Sir Josiah—calls out, “One hundred meters, sir. Riding faster now.”
The dust rises above the trees now and the roar of 44 hooves thunders upward. Surely they see the line in front of them. Sir Michael dismounts, his round, deeply lined face squinting in concentration, holding his horse reins, crouching down to see better through a low gap in the foliage.
Sounds of “Whoa, whoa!” rise over the trees and the scraping of hooves as eleven riders come to a halt. I see flashes of shining armor through small spaces within tree branches.
Sir Michael stands straight and holds his hands to his lips, silencing us. He begins to lead his horse downhill. We ten other riders with him follow, walking our horses, hoping they don’t neigh our presence.
They do of course make some horse noise, but there is plenty of that from the other side of the stream as well. Our horses also make noise of their hooves among rocks as we descend, but plenty of hoof clatter rises from the other side of the trees, from the agitated new horses shifting positions while their riders keep them in place. Plus, there is the noise of the babbling stream itself.
“How dare you stop the messengers of the King of Olympus!” shouts a voice. “Stand aside or be destroyed!”
I hear the govnor’s answer well enough to know it’s his voice that spoke a measured reply. Not well enough to know what he said.
We continue downstream some fifty meters, until we come to a small gap in the trees. Sir Michael mounts up, then raises up one finger of his left hand into the air, then points it forward. Then he shows five fingers twice for the ten of us and points forward. I know the signal—“All of you follow me as I lead you forward.” Or even, “follow my example.”
Sir Michael kicks his bay mare and splashes into the stream, charging across it. His horse stumbles, but does not fall. Sir Ivan is next, then me, then eight more behind us. We thunder forward, out of the stream and onto the road, with the eleven Olympians uphill to our right, facing t
he larger double line of my lord to their front.
Sir Michael gives the example by lining up behind the enemy rider the furthest away from the stream. Ivan takes the second and I the third, and each of us in turn do the same. Olympian riders look behind them in shock and dismay. In seconds we have formed a line of all eleven of us, and Michael signals and we advance at a walk ten meters, closing the box around the Olympians. Letting them feel the pressure.
Now I hear my lord clearly enough, “So are you sure then you wish to threaten me with this weapon of yours, the one from the Time of Magic?”
The contempt in the lead Olympian’s voice rang out loud and plain. “It was the time of science, you primitive ignoramus!”
“I fail to see the difference,” Govnor Pederson remarks mildly. “In any case, will you use this weapon of science, then? And likely die in so doing?”
The chief rider, who happens to be two horses to my right, is holding an object in his hand with a grip like a dagger’s, but with a body that’s oblong and points forward. He is aiming this at my lord. “You have only begun to know terror, fool. You will feel your skin burning when I squeeze this trigger. Nothing you can do can stop it!”
My lord clears his throat, “You mean, nothing except throw my greater numbers at you and kill you before you can shoot us all? I only see one of these weapons of the past. Simple choice here, Olympian. Surrender or die.”
The rider responds by squeezing his hand at my lord. The govnor falls from his horse, calling out in pain. All of us, every Ascrean rider present, draws sword at that instant and pushes forward in rage. The Olympian shifts the odd-shaped thing again, shooting at the men in front. Each time he squeezes a man either calls out or falls. Or both.
But my lord has taken his feet again from the ground and shouts, “The weapon stuns with pain! It does no real damage—capture, do not kill!” Most of us hadn’t moved, shocked to see our lord fall.
