Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods) (42 page)

The rising sun sparkled in dizzying colors off the glassy stones littering the lakes’ floor. The sight took Ryne’s breath away. Boats by the hundreds dotted the expanses of water. Twin gigantic statues, one of Hyzenki and the other of Aeoli, both holding massive swords raised to the heavens, adorned each lake.

Perched on the islands between Lake Benica and Venica sat Castere. The city’s Outer Ring to its Inner Ring rose in a mountain of structures which began with wooden shacks followed by stone edifices in blue and violet shades and culminated with the spires and towers of the King’s castle at the city’s peak. Tiles or shingles covered roofs that sloped down or peaked up. Even this early, people streamed like foraging ants across the white bridges spanning the many tributaries, streams, and canals that carved paths through the city’s Outer and Mid Ring.

The Mid Ring began where the Outer Ring ended a mile into Castere at the first of the city’s two encircling ramparts. The hundred-foot edifice marked the Mid Ring’s border, and although considered one wall, it was two, separated by huge gates in each cardinal direction. Once, what was now the Mid Ring had been the poor slums of the Outer Ring until Castere rose to prominence and the hovels spilled outside the first wall. Stone structures had replaced the shanties, and the slums had shifted until the Outer Ring lay outside the fortification. Ryne could see the process may well repeat itself again.

Two miles inside the Mid Ring stood Castere’s second rampart, two hundred feet high, which encircled the Inner Ring. This structure only had two gates located at the north and south ends. Guard towers and crenellations spread across both walls. From atop the hill they traveled, the ramparts resembled a giant eye with the lakes at its corners and the city as the iris.
The Crying City, indeed.

Ryne pictured himself marshalling legions to defend the city. The mountainous design and its position with the lakes defending its flanks made the citadel difficult to take. As Ryne descended down to Lake Venica’s shores, he couldn’t help but wonder if an army the size of the one Jaecar reported could sack Castere.

“Anything that rises may fall. Whatever man has built, the gods will tear down,” Sakari said.

Ryne frowned. Had he spoken aloud? Or was it just Sakari appearing to read his thoughts again? He gave his friend a sidelong glance. “Either way, it would take a long siege even with the numbers Jaecar described.”

“Maybe.” Sakari pointed across the multicolored stones littering Lake Venica’s shores out to the glittering crystal waters. “Will they help them?”

Ryne eyed the towering statue of Hyzenki, his beard to his waist, rising in the middle of Lake Venica. “Have the gods ever helped anyone?”

“Yet, you pray to them.”

Ryne could just see the tip of the sword the statue’s twin—the goddess Aeoli—held high in Lake Benica. Against the backdrop of the wall across the lake stood the ordered temples dedicated to the two gods of Flows. “Maybe, I’m just hopeful.”

“Or maybe you believe,” Sakari replied.

Ryne opened his mouth, but before he answered, he realized Sakari was right. He’d seen too much not to believe in divine power or the gods’ hands meddling in men’s affairs. Why he himself prayed only to Ilumni, he didn’t know. It just felt right. He shrugged the thought off and peered out across the lake to the massive docks that stretched over five hundred feet out into the lake.

Longboats, ferries, and flat cargo carriers sailed between Castere and the outlying settlements along the shores or sat at docks. Rows of oars rose and fell in a rhythm more like flapping wings than wooden planks. Vessels approaching Castere had to travel between the passage the Mid Ring’s ramparts formed a quarter mile into each lake. The passages led to the Eastern and Western gates and the docks beyond. Each gigantic metal portcullis and the chains and gears that hoisted it, said to be imbued with Mater so the gate would never rust, was the only way to reach Castere proper from the water.

“Do you think the walls, the gates, and those would be enough protection?” Ryne pointed to the Astocan warsailers—sleek ships with easily dismantled square sails—practicing formations. The Waterwall—a depiction of a huge ocean wave with a storm brewing above—emblazoned the sails.

“I would not attack Castere from the water. The lakes themselves would prove weapons for Astoca’s Namazzi Matii.”

“Indeed,” Ryne agreed. “But the question remains still. Would it be enough?” A wide Cardian vessel bearing sails with the Maelstrom emblem of Cardia steered a wide berth around the warsailers.

“I doubt it. Eventually it will depend on sustenance.”

Ryne grunted in agreement. Castere would be able to hold as long as they had supplies. Once they used up their stores, the real fight would begin.

They continued past Lake Venica onto the wide, main causeway. People in the thousands from across the kingdoms traversed the road. Were those Alzari in their tight-fitted garb among the crowds, with their heads down, feet dragging from their defeat? They looked like them, but Ryne couldn’t be sure since they wore no war paint. His attention shifted across the masses to swarthy Harnans, some near as tall as he, ebony-skinned Cardians, aloof Astocans, hairless and yellow complexioned Banai, tall, slim Felani with their short, cropped hair, and even pale-skinned and fair featured Granadians.

Various languages and too many accents to count filtered from the crush of people calling to each other or involved in murmured or heated conversations. Wheels trundled on earth and flagstones, hooves clopped, feet shuffled and stomped, beasts of burden called, all coalescing into an unintelligible tumult. Sweaty odors, the aromas from scented oils and perfumes, and the smell of animals and their droppings combined for a hodgepodge of scents.

One constant held true along the road. People made way for Thumper and Ryne. They both dwarfed any other creature on the causeway, be it dartan, slainen, or horses drawing wagons. After another hour of travel, they reached a queue of wagons and drays at the Outer Ring.

Guards in azure armor, the Waterwall insignia on their surcoats, inspected each wagon. This lent to the crowds bunching closer to a makeshift wooden gate built on the main causeway. The other smaller roads were also guarded. Normally, there were few guards and few inspections until the main gates at the Mid Ring. To one side, soldiers questioned several travelers who Ryne could now confirm were Alzari from the smudged remnants of war paint on their faces. Other soldiers spoke to any man or woman wearing armor or bearing arms. These, they led away down a clear side of the causeway separated from the main by wooden barriers. A few soldiers pointed in Ryne’s direction, hands reaching for sword hilts while others unlimbered their bows.

“Looks like they’ve received word,” Ryne said.

“So it seems,” Sakari replied.

An Astocan officer with multiple knots on the shoulder of his sky blue uniform approached Ryne on a speckled dartan. The man’s dark brown skin had a polished sheen to match the pebbles he had for eyes. “Ryne Waldron?” The sweaty, round-faced man’s nostrils flared, and the slits on the side of his neck opened and closed in slow flutters as he took a deep breath.

“Yes?” Ryne answered. From his books, he’d learned that unlike most others, Astocans and Cardians smelled more than they saw features.

“I’m Lieutenanat Rosival, I have orders to escort you to the King’s Audience Chambers.”

Ryne nodded. “Lead on.”

“This way.” Rosival’s hand beckoned toward a side path with a smaller gate.

Rosival led at a gallop, and Ryne and Sakari followed. The many streets within the area the Lieutenant took them appeared deserted. The noise from the crowds became nothing more than a muffled buzz as they crossed small bridges over the drains and canals lining the rank streets. Along with Forgings by the Namazzi, levies controlled the streams and small rivers during the worst weather. Ryne envisioned the liquid within the drainage system used as weapons during any attack.

Cracked and pitted cobblestones marred the Outer Ring’s narrow roads as they continued to follow Rosival. One in every three buildings were in a state of disrepair, paint peeled and reduced to faded blues and whites. Refuse lined more roads than not. Flies buzzed about, and small dogs and large swamp rats dug or scurried among the garbage.

Disgusting.
Ryne shook his head. He abhorred the thought that the less fortunate should be forced to live in squalor. What upset him even more was how the rich contributed to the situation. He’d seen Castere during the storms or hard rains. Filth would run into the slums carried down by the drains from the Inner City. He gazed across several canals and culverts where workers dug trenches while other laborers loaded refuse onto a flat cargo vessel.
Well, at least it seems they’re addressing the situation.

They soon reached the bulwark at the Mid Ring. Lances dotted the battlements, and guards patrolled atop the walls or kept a vigilant eye from the many towers. Here, they encountered workers collecting garbage in two-wheeled drays pulled by dartans along roads in much better condition. Once loaded, the dartans headed toward the Outer Ring. The streets here had also been cleared of regular folk, restricting passage to soldiers.

When they came upon the Inner Ring and its crenellated rampart, the streets became spotless, paved with large flagstones in mosaic designs. Villas dotted the hundred-foot wide avenue, their deep blue and violet walls gleaming. Spires stretched twice the height of the two hundred-foot walls, and sunlight reflected from the buildings’ glass-covered facades. Fountains lined the main road, and small ponds filled with fish decorated some areas. Pillars adorned the entrance to each villa with manicured gardens hedging most properties.

Another thing stood out to Ryne within the Inner Ring—the number of soldiers. They marched through the streets or stood in lined formations numbering in the tens of thousands. Infantry, dartan divisions, archers, and several cohorts who displayed the Waterwall insignia of Astoca’s Matii, the Namazzi, crowded the squares. Ryne smiled at the occasional shift or fidget among the troops when Thumper rode by.

They turned onto a marbled colonnade, wide enough for twenty wagons to travel abreast, which led to the castle’s main gates. Immaculate flagstones, and even more fountains sprouting water at timed intervals, decorated the area. Manicured gardens, much more beautiful than any before, spread to the sides. Guards stood at attention along this path, tasseled lances held high.

Looming ahead was Castere Keep, its towers and spires extending a thousand feet into the air as Astoca’s dedication to Aeoli, its walls glittering in silvery blue. Disguised within the beauty were arrow slits, murder holes, and sally gates. Twin barbicans guarded the raised, heavy gate and portcullis. The Waterwall fluttered from multiple flag posts. Ryne saw the castle for what it was—a fortress.

They rode through the gates into a courtyard and past two matching guard formations standing at strict attention to either side of the walkway that ended at the stairs to the castle itself. Ten servants in white livery ran down the wide stairs. Rosival dismounted and passed his reins to two such. Without being told, Sakari hopped down and Ryne followed suit, handing Thumper’s reins to a wide-eyed young Astocan who stared, openmouthed. The young man’s partner nudged him in the side. Still staring, the youth muttered an apology. After quick bows, the servants led the mounts toward a path on one side.

Rosival turned to Ryne and said, “Master Waldron, as a safety measure it is requested you leave your weapons here with the guards. Due to the nature of recent events, only the Royal Guards are allowed to be armed in the King’s presence.”

Ryne did not bother to look at the Lieutenant. “In that case, I’ll be leaving.” He raised a hand toward the servant leading Thumper away. “Hul—”

“Wait.” Rosival wiped sweat from his forehead. “Allow me to pass word of your arrival.”

“We’ll be sitting on your pretty stairs waiting. If you take too long, I’m leaving.” With that, Ryne strode to the steps and sat.

Rosival spoke to a guard, and then hurried inside.

From where Ryne sat, he could see through the gates and down into the city and land for miles to the northeast. From this vantage point, someone in Castere must have seen the smoking clanholds. That would explain why the soldiers were questioning the Alzari at the gates. The King was already aware of the threat.

“You may enter,” Rosival said when he returned soon after.

They followed the Lieutenant up the stairs and through a wide gateway manned by several guards in bronze armor. Hands on swords, they stared straight ahead as if they saw nothing. Not a single guard reached higher than Ryne’s chest.

The entrance opened into a long hall of marble and paneled wood, polished until it could hold a blurred reflection. Tapestries and murals illustrating great battles hung above the paneling. The most prominent depicted the gods Hyzenki and Aeoli at war, commanding storms and seas in battle against the Eztezians—a race of giants the size of the Svenzar. A few displayed the King on his hunts.

Along the length of the hall, stone columns supported inlaid vaulted ceilings with lamps in sconces adorning each pillar. Ryne’s feet made little to no noise on the lush carpets. Every fifteen feet, guards stood at attention on alternating sides.

Doorways, with the Waterwall standard draped above, intersected the hall at regular intervals. Liveried servants ran back and forth from rooms or bustled up and down the hall. Some carried food, others drink, and yet others held trays of fruit. The sweet aromas wafting from the dishes made Ryne’s stomach grumble. Rosival led them straight ahead into the Audience Chamber.

Dignitaries and nobles in extravagant clothing crowded the hall. Long coats reaching down to their knees, skin like polished copper, heads shaved on one side, marked Felani from the west. Harnan Lords, their skin tanned to ebony, puffed about in embroidered jackets and dresses buttoned to the neck, dabbing at their heads with scented scarves. With one side of their chests exposed, often with nothing more than painted stripes across the skin, Cardian Lords and Ladies prowled in bright colored, sheer satins and linens that did little to hide their bodies. Colorful tattoos on baldheads indicated the Banai nobility among the crowds. Most listened to an Astocan in gold and white silks who stood on a dais at the room’s center.