The Chimaera Regiment (15 page)

They laughed in victory. But Caradoc’s comment brought them back to earth: “So all we have to do for Hector to get into the Library of the Ancients is find where two rivers in the underworld meet, all in a forest made of stone and iron?” When silence reigned, he tried to tone back his sarcasm; he suggested, “Is that another metaphor for the place of the dead? Since stone and iron aren’t alive, like a forest is?”

Fornein was unsure. “It’s not one that I’ve ever heard before,” he said, “but many of the stories have been lost over the years. It’s certainly possible.”

“Hector, what do you think?”

Hector looked back at Bronwyn, who had made the inquiry. He had only partly been paying attention as he tried to navigate the southeastern portion of the Keldan woodlands, leading the way to their rendezvous with the Termessians and the Emmetchae. As his thoughts caught up to what they were discussing, he answered, “Uh, no, I don’t think so.” He looked pointedly at Bronwyn and explained, “When Lord Aneirin told me about this quest, he said that the Library of the Ancients was in the capital city of the old empire, a place called ‘Fylscea.’ Now, I don’t know what that name means, but he said that it was to the east, on the coast.” He paused, then said hesitantly, “And that description—a forest of stone and iron—sounds almost exactly like a nightmare I used to have.”

Fornein was immediately interested. As a one-time Storyteller, he put a lot of faith in dreams; he used to say that they were visions from the gods to guide people to their destinies. “What did you see in the dream?” he pressed the Alkimite.

Hector retold the dream in as much detail as he could; he did not like reliving the terrifying moments, but if it helped them defeat Derek, he could not object. He mentioned the huge, monolithic structures and various metal towers that surrounded him, the dark and brooding villain—who could only be Derek—and the feminine voice warning him. For a long time, they walked in silence, pondering the dream and the poem, looking for solutions.

“That voice,” Fornein offered, “was probably our goddess Ariane. She often shows us visions of the future, to help us in times of need.”

Hector shrugged. “I don’t know if it was or not. I just know what I saw.”

“If you’re right,” Bronwyn said, “and I think you are, then we’re not looking in the underworld for this entrance. We’re looking for a place in that city that resembles the underworld.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Hector said slowly, once again distracted by his search for the meeting place, “if it is a message from the gods, that it will all become clear at the proper time.”

“That’s a wise attitude,” came a voice from the trees. Hector smiled in recognition, and Lord Tiernach stepped out of hiding, followed by Queen Reina and a dozen warriors from each tribe. The lady of the Emmetchae stepped forward to kiss Hector’s cheek; the Alkimite glanced shyly at Bronwyn, who did not look happy.

“Why didn’t you tell me they were going to send you after Queen Harratha?” Tiernach asked, “I’d have warned you about negotiating with her.”

“I didn’t know at the time,” Hector explained sorrowfully. “I only wish I could have convinced her.”

Tiernach slapped his shoulder. “Ah, but you did, man. She was a stubborn woman, and the thing she understood best of all was battle. Words were a hard thing for her.” Hector wanted to ask how the Termessian lord knew the late queen so well, but Tiernach took the opportunity to gesture at Hector’s companions. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Hector bowed, then gestured to each of his friends in turn. “This is Fornein, Storyteller and Sage, once for the Keldans, now for the Alkimites.” The old hermit swelled with gladness at his unceremonious induction into Hector’s tribe; he smiled his thanks at the man as he greeted the two chieftains.

“This is Caradoc,” Hector continued, “warrior, friend, and my brother, though not by blood.” The younger Alkimite was enthusiastic in his greeting, and he stood tall next to his friend.

“Last but not least,” said Hector, “is Bronwyn, the sister of Caradoc, and a great and wise woman.” She stepped forward and bowed slightly.

Tiernach took her hand and kissed it. “Charmed,” he said with a smile.

Reina smiled and bowed in return. She looked at Hector and asked, “Is this your warrior princess?”

Hector swallowed hard, having forgotten his ruse with the Emmetchae. “Yes,” he said sheepishly, avoiding eye contact with Bronwyn, who was glaring at him in confusion. He tried to change the subject. “Lord Tiernach, I am glad that you and Queen Reina did not come to a misunderstanding when the Emmetchae arrived here. I was worried that you might not have been allies prior to our arrangement.”

Tiernach laughed. “I would never,” he answered, “attack my own daughter.”

Startled, Hector looked at Reina, who nodded. Color drained from his face as he realized what had happened. “Milord,” he said, “I had no idea. I would surely have tried harder not to—”

Tiernach cut him off, “Don’t worry about it, man. Like I said, Harratha was a stubborn woman. I frequently proposed the joining of our tribes, but she was adamant; her women would breed with men from my tribe, we would keep the sons, and they would keep the daughters.” He smiled mischievously. “It’s hard to say no to a warrior woman with a plan like that.”

He gestured for the travelers to follow him as he led them back toward the combined camp of Termessian and Emmetchan fighters. As they walked, he asked, “How did you escape the Keldans after all? Are you ready to return there, and exact justice upon that vile house?”

Hector glanced at Fornein, but the hermit did not meet his gaze. “Eitromal lies dead,” Hector explained, “And there is no time to return there. The Chimaera Regiment is already attacking them. By morning, the forest will be overrun, and we have a more important task ahead of us.”

Tiernach scowled. “What could be more important that rebuffing that cur?”

“And how do you know,” asked Reina, “that he won’t press on and attack our own defenseless tribes in the north?”

“Because Derek wants me,” Hector answered, “And either he’ll torture the Keldans into telling him where I’ve gone, or he’ll have his Guardian translate the obelisk and go straight for the city. I think he knows this isn’t over yet. His assassins failed in the forest, and he won’t find me among the Keldans. Based on everything I’ve learned from Lords Aneirin and Brynjar, he’ll have to kill me before he can take his crown, and he won’t delay that to attack your peoples.”

Reina nodded, although she was still not happy. Tiernach, who was now leaning against a nearby tree trunk, took a deep breath and sighed it back out. “So,” he asked, “where is this task taking us?”

“The coast,” Hector answered, “East, to the former capital of the old empire, Fylscea, on the coast.”

Tiernach frowned. “The coast is still over a hundred miles away,” he cautioned, “I’m not comfortable leading my army on a hundred-mile retreat from the enemy.”

“Neither am I,” Reina piped in.

Hector tried to look sympathetic. “Don’t think of it as a retreat,” he offered, “It’s more like... a tactical withdrawal.”

The lord of the Termessians wrinkled his nose. “That doesn’t sound much better.”

“Look!” Bronwyn interjected, “You may want to ‘rebuff’ the Regiment, and with your combined armies, you might do just that—but if you want Derek and his kind put down for good, our only option is to get to Fylscea!”

Tiernach was taken aback by her tenacity, and a hint of approval tugged at the corners of Reina’s mouth. But Tiernach was still not convinced. “Why?” he pressed her. “What difference does that make? Is there a great fortress? A ruse to draw Derek himself into the battle? What makes this city special?”

Caradoc stepped in, eager to defend his sister and his friend. “Don’t you know that Hector is the heir to the old empire? The proof is in the city. No one will be able to deny his authority once we’re there, and Derek can’t stand against the will of the gods.”

Tiernach was not impressed. “Sure he can,” he shot back, “My understanding is that he’s been doing nothing else for the past few years. Is Astor suddenly going to strike him with lightning, just because Hector’s on the throne? Will Aeron open up the earth to drag him down to the depths, all because of a crown or a ring or something?”

Hector placed a gentle hand on Caradoc’s shoulder, before the boy overextended his arguments. The Imperial heir took a different tack. “Look at it this way,” he said, “Derek won’t be recognized as a ruler until he has the very same symbols that I’m looking for. If we get to them first, then the man himself will have to come to us to get them. That will be our chance to cut the head off the beast. Fair enough?”

Tiernach sighed again, but at last, the Termessian lord nodded slowly. “Alright,” he said, still reluctantly, “a tactical withdrawal.” Straightening up again, he added with a little zeal, “If it’s to be a chase, then let’s give the wretch the hardest chase of his life.”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The first of the month of Dekamen

During the night

Both armies, with Hector, Tiernach, Reina, Bronwyn, Doc, and Fornein in the lead, maintained a hard and fast march for the next three days. They left the forest behind the first day, and spent the remainder crossing wide plains and rolling hills. Those days were long, and the nights were short; even if the Keldans managed to slow the Regiment down, they could not afford to tarry for even a moment.

On the second night, before the first day of the tenth month of the year, the six leaders of the joint army settled around the same campfire. Hector spent a few minutes sparring with Caradoc, trying to help his young friend to be ready for the inevitable. Doc took to the blade well enough, but the battle-hardened Hector easily bested him time and again. Exhaustion soon overtook them, and they retired for the evening.

When the night seemed darkest, Hector awoke. The fire burned low and the embers smoldered darkly. He could make out a few of Reina’s warrior women patrolling the area during the third watch of the night. As he continued to take in his surroundings, he saw Bronwyn sitting up, a short way off from the campfire. Hector crawled to his feet and went over to her.

She was shivering absentmindedly, so he sat down beside her and threw his arm around her shoulders. She jumped, startled by his sudden presence. He smiled reassuringly. “What’s got you up?” he asked.

She forced a smile past her wounded eyes. “What hasn’t got me up?” she joked. Hector frowned and held her a little closer. He half-expected her to pull away, but she leaned into the embrace, then wrapped one arm around his back and lay her head on his chest. “Are we going to survive?” she said at last, sounding very small.

“Hey,” he answered, pulling away and lifting her face until their eyes met. He gave the warmest smile he could find—and that was easy enough, looking into her eyes. “Everything is going to be fine.”

She did not look satisfied, and she pressed past his hold to lean into his chest again. “What if everyone back home is dead?”

He almost laughed, more from a loss for words than finding any real humor in her question. He said stutteringly, “Well, I—I really don’t think that’s so. The gods wouldn’t let so many die unjustly.”

“The gods aren’t here, Hector!” she snapped, drawing back and glaring at him.

He frowned, furrowing his brow. “Aren’t they?” he asked her honestly.

She did not reply. She leaned against his chest again, holding him tight, as if squeezing him reminded her that breath still filled her friends, and that she was not alone. Hector was about to press her for more, but he thought better of it, and squeezed her back. Glancing down awkwardly, he thought he glimpsed a small smile as she fell asleep.

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The second of the month of Dekamen

Late in the fifth hour

Shortly before noon, two mornings later, Hector’s traveling armies encountered a problem. A Termessian scout, one of the troops sent ahead to watch out for trouble, came stumbling into view with his wrists bound. He was dehydrated and out of breath, and he went directly to his lord.

Tiernach immediately called for water, and cut the man’s bindings himself. As Reina ordered the army to halt, Tiernach had the beleaguered man sit down, where Hector joined them.

The man’s sense of urgency prevented him from drinking his fill. He had barely wet his tongue when he said hoarsely, “They’ve captured my troop, milord!”

“Who?” Tiernach asked, “Who has captured them?”

He answered, “The local tribe. They call themselves the Sidians. They said they rule all the land on the coast.”

Tiernach looked at Hector. “We’re only a few hours from the coast,” he said, “They have to be living in the old city.” Looking east in the high morning sun, the sparkle and glitter of the strange place was visible near the horizon; Tiernach seemed even less pleased than before to be traveling toward it.

Hector knelt next to the scout, who was seated on the hillside. “What’s your name, man?” he asked.

“Leitan,” he answered, “I am called Leitan.”

“Tell me, Leitan,” Hector said softly, “How did you escape?”

Leitan shook his head slowly. “I didn’t, milord,” he replied, “They let me go. They said to tell my lord that they’ll release the rest of the troop if we stop the army immediately and go to parley with them.”

Tiernach scowled. He was furious that anyone would treat his soldiers in such a manner; he was bothered even more at the enemy’s foresight. “How did they know we had an army?” he snapped.

Leitan was at a loss. He took another swig of water. Hector answered, “There is little cover along our route, milord. If they have a vantage point in one of those towers, they could easily have seen us coming.”

Tiernach stood and paced, still angry. Reina crossed her arms and asked the inevitable: “So what do we do?”

Hector knew that the other two rulers were not in a conciliatory mood, but he was not about to start a second war when he was still in the midst of his first. “We do as they ask,” he replied, then added pacifyingly, “for now. Stop the army here, and we’ll go meet with them.”

“You can’t be serious,” Tiernach objected, “They’ve imprisoned my men without cause!”

“Do you want those men back or not?” Hector snapped at him. “In their eyes, we’re trespassing, even invading, with an army the likes of which they might never have seen. They have a right to an explanation.”

Again, the Termessian lord was not pleased, but he could not argue. He got the scout up and led him to where another troop was resting, then passed along the orders. Hector waved to Bronwyn, Fornein, and Caradoc, and his companions came over. While Reina went to pass his orders to her warriors, Hector explained the situation to his friends.

A few minutes later, Hector, his two allies, and his three friends were crossing an open plain toward a band of foreign men. Hector estimated that there were about thirty soldiers armed and waiting for them. He was entirely uncomfortable walking into their custody, and he knew that Tiernach and Reina would be fuming, but they could not afford another foe.

When they were close enough to speak, the captain apparent strolled casually to greet them. Behind him, all of his warriors held their bowstrings taut, with arrows aimed either at their captives or these foreign lords. The captain bowed his head slightly and introduced himself. “I am Arweor of the Sidians. What brings you to our lands?”

Reina was incensed at the sight of the captives; she saw that one of her own Emmetchan troops was likewise bound. She reached for her battle-axe, saying, “We have come to free our people!”

Hector grabbed her wrist sharply before her haft left its place in her belt. He spoke through clenched teeth, glaring at her meaningfully. “But let’s not start any battles we can’t finish, hmm?” Her eyes twitched with ire at his intrusion, but she released the axe and stepped back.

The Alkimite glanced at Tiernach to ensure his good behavior, then looked at Arweor. “I am Hector of the Alkimites. This is Lord Tiernach of the Termessians, and Queen Reina of the Emmetchae.” He asserted firmly, “We have complied with your request; now we insist that you release our people.”

Arweor made a face. “Not just yet,” he said in mock apology. “You see, my lord does not want you invading our land. So if you have some business here, out with it, and then you can go on your way. But if you’re here for battle, be warned: we will not hesitate to strike you down.”

Hector glanced at the archers standing behind Arweor, and he did not doubt the claim. He licked his lips and tried to quell his growing anxiety. He decided that the truth would be his most effective answer. “As I said,” he began, “I am Hector of the Alkimites. The blood of the Fylscem Emperors flows in my veins. Our peoples are under threat by the Chimaera Regiment, who attacked us without provocation. Within your city lie the symbols of my reign, and by them, we can defeat this enemy. In the name of Anthea, I require your aid.”

Arweor frowned. He did not like his options, but Hector had become accustomed to begging for help, and he had named every honorable cause. In truth, Arweor did not have any options, unless he wanted to offend the gods. “Fine,” he acquiesced at last, narrowing his eyes, “I will take you,” he pointed at Hector, then gestured to Fornein, Bronwyn, and Caradoc behind him, “and those three to see my lord.” Pointing at Tiernach and Reina, he finished, “These two have to stay behind.”

Reina started forward again, but Hector caught her arm and drew her aside. He gestured for Tiernach to join them. He advised them, “I know it’s not ideal, but I think this is our best option. I’ll go with him and try to barter entrance for you and your armies.” He glanced between them and added conspiratorially, “If I don’t come back before the Regiment gets here, take up defensive positions in the city—and don’t let anyone stop you.”

If anything was going to appease the warlike rulers, that was it. Reina set her jaw and nodded; Tiernach smiled and said, “Go get your crown, lad.”

Hector smiled his thanks and turned back to Arweor. Gesturing for his friends to join him, he bowed his head and declared, “We are ready to meet your lord.”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Dekamen

Early in the second hour

The lord of the Sidians took far longer to meet with Hector than he had anticipated. Arweor led them into the city and housed them for a night. The next morning, an hour after dawn, they were brought before the lord of the tribe.

Hector had spent the night fitfully, frustrated by their lack of cooperation. If these people lived here, in Fylscea, then they probably knew its history—or perhaps even its secrets. The Alkimite had many questions for them, not only in his effort to stop the Regiment, but also to sate his own curiosity. He had difficulty containing his excitement as they approached this foreign ruler.

The lord was tall and lean, but unlike the wicked lord of the Keldans, his manner was genteel and kind. Even so, he was greatly disturbed by the apparent invasion of his lands. “I am Lord Novamic,” he introduced himself, “Why have you brought an army against my city?”

Hector adopted his most mollifying tone. “We have not brought our army against you, my lord. No hostile intent is meant. In truth, we had no idea that anyone lived here.”

Novamic frowned. There was something in his eyes that Hector could not identify, as if he were judging the youth against some unknown standard. “Then why have you come?” he asked.

Hector bowed his head slightly. “I am the direct heir of the last Fylscem Emperor,” he answered, “and I was sent here by the Guardian lord Aneirin. My task is to discover the secret entrance to the Library of the Ancients, wherein I will find the symbols of my imperial reign, called the Blessed Blades of the Emperor.”

Novamic eyed him approvingly. “There is a strength of the Divines in your voice, young lord,” he said, “But tell me truly, for I must discern your honesty: who is this ‘Guardian’ you speak of? How did you perceive him?”

Hector was flustered. Why would the man ask about Aneirin? How could that prove him honest? After pausing to gather his thoughts, he described Aneirin in as much detail as he could recall. “The nature of the Guardians is beyond our comprehension, milord, but I will tell you as I can: he has skin like silver, but stronger than iron and without any blemish, and he wears no garments over his cold flesh. His stature belies his strength, and his head, which is smooth and curved like a fish, tells of his vast intellect. His eyes are silver, but not sharp as you might expect, milord, rather they have a softness like the kindness he shows to others—and there is great wisdom hidden there.”

“You have great eloquence,” Novamic said after a brief pause, smiling and bowing his head, “and depth of memory, young lord. I accept your claim.” Looking away, he explained thoughtfully, “Our own people have tales of the metallic men, who came from the Sea and taught us of ships and archery, making us the keepers of this great city. Many of my tribe had stopped believing, even I... but your words have renewed my faith.” He turned to Arweor and ordered, “Do whatever they ask of you, Captain.”

Arweor stepped closer to his lord, trying to hide his words from the strangers. Novamic replied in kind, but indignation sparked across his face at being questioned. Arweor bowed and said audibly, “Yes, milord.”

Novamic turned to leave, but one of the things he had said stuck in Caradoc’s memory. “Uh,” he began nervously, “Milord, you mentioned that your people have ships.”

Novamic looked back and nodded. “It would be a great challenge to control this coastline without them, my boy,” he replied wryly.

Caradoc shrugged a little and asked, “Then I suppose you know the river very well,” he said.

Novamic turned back and frowned. “Yes, of course,” he answered, confused by this line of questioning.

“What my brother is trying to ask, milord,” Bronwyn interrupted, eyeing Doc as only an elder sister can, “is this: Are there any places within the city where two rivers meet?”

Novamic nodded pensively. “There is one place,” he affirmed, “The hills northwest of the city have a spring that produces a small river. It unites with Freewater at the western end of the city.”

All four turned to Arweor and said in almost comical unison, “Take us there!”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Dekamen

Late in the second hour

North of the city, Lochan entered the lords’ tent—now, he supposed, it belonged only to Derek—and bowed low. Derek looked up from his barbaric wooden throne and waved the tracker in.

“What do you have to report, man?” Derek asked. Lochan suppressed his desire to vomit. The tracker was the only survivor of Captain Martin’s troop, after the fool had launched a ten-man assault on the entire tribe of the Keldans. Derek himself had tortured Lochan for six hours after the Keldans were routed, not for information, but only as a punishment. Lochan had told everything he knew before the torture had even begun.

Afterward, he had been reassigned to Captain Alfeal’s troop as tracker and scout. Alfeal had been sent ahead of the army to ensure that they were still following the Alkimite boy. Derek was undeterred by their earlier report that they were now pursuing a great army. The lord of the Leonites had unshakeable faith in the Regiment; Lochan feared that it would be their downfall.

“We’ve found the city,” he reported, “and the army. They never saw me, but I believe they spotted one of the other troops. They had been camped on the north side of the city, but were moving in to defend it by the time I got a good look.”

Derek nodded slowly, nonplussed. “And the boy?” he asked.

Lochan shook his head slowly. “I did not see him among the army, but there was a great number—perhaps five thousand. He may have already been inside the city.”

“Then he is too far ahead of us,” Derek declared. “Order Captains Cassus, Brosne, Geapp, and Sharian to begin spreading the word across the camp. We move now. We crush this so-called army, we conquer the city, and we find that brat.” He nodded slowly, a far-off look of triumph adorning his face, “Then we get my blades and my crown.”

Lochan backed away with measured steps, bowing deeply. After the “disappearance” of Drystan, Derek had become increasingly remote. His outbursts had lessened, but his recklessness had increased tenfold. Calculation and strategy were no longer topics of discussion; his plan was to enter a territory and kill everyone in it. It was what he had done with the Keldans, and it was what he intended to do here.

Except this army, Lochan had seen, was too strong. It was composed not just of warriors, but of heroes—great, legendary soldiers who would not bend to Derek’s will. Combined with the unfamiliar landscape, Lochan had little doubt that Derek would eventually lose. He had no intention of being present when that time came.

He went quickly to each of the captains Derek had named, passing along the lord’s orders, and then he slinked away to the north, trying to put as much distance between himself and the crazed warlord as he could.