The Jongurian Mission (7 page)

“Your father walked back along
that coast like much of the remnants of that once-mighty army, but was never picked up. So for the second time in as many months he walked the length of the Ithmian Desert. How he survived, I have no idea.”

“By the time he got back to Fadurk, the war was over.
Peace had been declared with Jonguria, but a new war was about to break out between the nobles who declared a change in kings necessary for a lasting peace, and those that wanted the royal line to continue. No doubt furious with the way the Ithmian campaign had been conducted, Shep sided with the rebels, and headed to Regidia to join with their army. Trun and I sided with the loyalists and went to Culdovia to join with them. The two forces met at Baden for the bloodiest fighting I’ve ever seen. Nothing I’d seen in the war with Jonguria could compare to the way our countrymen slaughtered each other over those three days. Perhaps it was pent-up frustration at the ending of the war with Jonguria with no clear resolution, and bloodlust still fresh in most men’s minds from the failed offensive on the Isthmus. Maybe it was a desire to bloody the nobles as the common people had been bloodied for ten years in a foreign land. Whatever it was, those fields outside of the capital ran red with the blood of their people.”

“In the end the Regidian army was nearly wiped-out, your father Shep with them.
He’d fallen on the second day of fighting, we learned later, taken by an arrow in the chest. We don’t know for sure, but more than likely he was slain in the charges which your uncle and I had a part in leading.”

“We carried his body back to Eston with us, and had him buried next to the grave of your mother on the farm.
She’d died in birthing you not long after the two of us had left for the fighting all those years before. Soon your granddad followed, and we had three graves where before there’d been none. Most of the country was doing the same.”

“Trun had few prospects with his war wound, and agreed to continue working the farm, and to see that you were brought up proper.
I headed to Plowdon and took up a different sort of service for the government, making attacks with my pen instead of my sword, my fighting days behind me.”

When Halam was done he continued to sit and stare into the fire, smoking his pipe.
He looked more tired at the end of his tale than he had at the beginning.

Bryn had heard bits and pieces of the story before, from his
Uncle Trun and from townsfolk in Eston, but he’d never heard the whole thing in one telling before, nor all of it, as far as Halam’s account went. It was a lot to take in on one dark night beside the Tillata River.

“Well, boy, I think it
’d be good if we both turned in for the night,” Halam said, breaking the silence. “We’ve got a long day of riding before us, and we’ll want to be up with the sun to start it. Good night lad.”

Bryn figured that what Halam said didn’t exactly refer to
him, as he continued to sit and stare into the fire, his thoughts no doubt focused on those years of war and his lost brother. Bryn found a spot on the ground that had the least amount of rocks and lay down, his back to the fire, and his thoughts on the father he never knew.

FOUR

The sun was poking its head over the eastern horizon and the birds were
happily chirping in the trees as Bryn went to the river to wash his face and fill the water skins. He scooped up a handful of water to his mouth and drank, just then realizing how dry his mouth and throat were. He lowered his head down and drank directly from the river, gulp after gulp, his thirst unquenchable. Finally he was satisfied, and wiped his mouth, his belly now sloshing as he walked. When he came back to the camp, Halam had all of their things packed into Juniper’s saddlebags and was already astride her. He pulled Bryn up, and they got back on the road following the river southwest toward Plowdon.

They rode on in silence, the sun rising behind them to warm the crisp spring morning, the river keeping up its rhythmic roar to their right.
The scenery changed little. Fields rolled by on either side of the road, interrupted only by the river and the occasional small stand of trees crowding its banks. Unlike the Eston Road, which ran straight from north to south with no interruptions, the Tillata Road had several smaller roads branching from it. These led to various farms scattered over the rising fields, and to the occasional small town, really no more than a cluster of families living in close proximity.

The traffic on the road increased as they moved westward.
Carts and wagons laden with goods traveled in both directions, while wains piled with hay would often join from one of the smaller offshoot roads and head on for awhile before turning onto another smaller avenue or continuing on. Some held large sacks of grain stored over the winter and now being shipped to Plowdon for sale. Others headed east to the sea where they’d supply the fishing vessels which traveled the Apsalar Ocean and the Ithmian Sea.

Occasionally they
’d see another lone rider on horseback like themselves. They’d ride to catch up or slow to approach, trading greetings, asking about destinations, and exchanging news. These encounters were infrequent when Bryn and Halam had begun that morning, but as the day progressed they became more common.

They ate lunch in the saddle
around noon, the same simple meal of dried bread, cheese, and apples, Halam not wanting to find a tavern in one of the small towns lying anywhere from one to several leagues off the main road. By midday they were well into the western portion of Tillatia, Halam informed Bryn, and they’d see the hills increase in size while the fields grew smaller. Houses would begin to frequent the sides of the road more often as they approached the smaller outlying towns of Plowdon. If they weren’t slowed down by any more travelers, Halam hinted to Bryn, they’d be in the city by nightfall.

Bryn could
n’t remember how many times he’d dreamed of seeing the capital of the province. Often while growing up he’d lie awake at night imagining being in the city, amongst its masses of people, its overflowing marketplaces, and in view of its royal palaces. He knew so much about Plowdon from books he’d read and from stories he’d been told by his uncle Trun: the population over the years, the amount of trade passing through in any given year, the various districts of the city and the people who called them home. Yet he knew that those descriptions couldn’t compare to actually
being
there in person, to actually
walking
those streets.

As Halam had said, houses began to crowd into the road as the sun moved from burning their necks to stinging their eyes.
The road began to widen, and where once there were nothing but rolling fields, there were now hills. The road climbed and dipped amongst them, and soon there were crowds of people thronging the road, many more people than Bryn had seen anywhere at one time before, even during harvest days in Eston.

Finally as the sky began to grow darker
with passing minute, they headed over one final hill. Before them, set into a large valley, lay what could only be the city of Plowdon.

She was set like an immensity
upon the land, fields surrounding her and roads leading from all directions. Bryn gaped open-mouthed at the sheer size of the city. It took up acres and acres of land. Fields were all around the walls, farmers busily working them. Countless wagons and people on horseback moved to and from the city gates, three of which Bryn could see set into the immense city walls, which towered over the flat fields around them.

Built hundreds of years earlier from stone cut and chiseled from the Montino Mountains and transported downriver on immense barges, the walls were the tallest structures that Bryn had ever seen; that is, until he looked beyond them into the city itself.
Well inside of the walls, moving toward the center of the city, roofs began to push upward into the sky, reaching, and then surpassing, the heights of the walls built to protect them. Up and up they rose as they approached the city’s center, where what could only be the royal pala jutting up into the sky above them. Built over several generations reaching back hundreds of years into the past, well before the walls were a shadow of their current glory, the Tillatian kings built there palace on some low hills surrounded by the choicest farm land for leagues. Begun as a defensive castle in a time when danger could come from anywhere at anytime, the palace had grown over the years to include several more buildings erected around the original castle keep. Great spires were built to reach ever higher, providing views of the surrounding countryside, as well as any possible threat of danger. Now, however, the palace held only a commanding view over the city that grew around it, keeping a protective eye over the lives of thousands, any threats from outside being things of the past.

“Well, lad, welcome to the capital of Tillatia,” Halam said over his shoulder.
“What do you think?”

Bryn had a hard time putting what he saw into words.
Every description of the city he’d heard or read didn’t do justice to the sight before him. Finally he was able to utter just one word.

“Amazing
!”

“Aye,
” Halam laughed, “that she is lad, that she is.”

Halam urged Juniper forward on the road, and they continued down the rise of hills to the valley floor below, heading toward the main gate of the city.

Wagons laden with goods moved in and out of the city gates as they approached. Two large guard towers rose on each side of the massive wooden gate, and a thick portcullis made of steel hung above their heads as they passed through the massive doors and into the city.

Once inside the hard-packed dirt road under their feet
gave way to well-worn stone cobbles heading off in a myriad of directions to form a city square. Lanterns burned from posts well above the street, providing light. Wide avenues jutted out from the main square in front of the gate, trees lining their long promenades. A large fountain made of carved stone sat in the middle of the square, fashioned to look like three women holding up offering bowls to the heavens. Numerous small stands were set up, merchants calling out their wares to passersby, offering everything from shabby cookware to fine silks from Jonguria. People bartered and argued with the sellers, their faces hard and unyielding one minute, smiling and friendly the next.

The sheer number of people in the city was overwhelming to Bryn.
Some wore rich velvets and silks of every color imaginable, servants trailing behind them with goods purchased that day in the markets. Men decked out in armor carrying hauberks and wearing breastplates with the insignia of Tillatia, a plow on a golden field, roamed amongst the citizens, looking for any breaking of the peace and keeping order simply by their presence. Men and women sporting leather armor and swords at their belts moved with confidence and ease through the streets, their heads held high. Workers hustled about everywhere, many carrying large crates of goods to and fro in their arms, their vision obscured more than not by the bulk in their arms. The well-dressed and tattered eagerly jumped out of their way upon sight of them. Beggars scurried and limped among all, small wooden and tin bowls held out before them as they smiled their toothless smiles at the crowds.

“First things first, Bryn,” Halam said. “We’ll head to the trade office so I can hear the news from Culdovia and meet with my associate Rodden.”

“Sounds fine to me,
Uncle Halam,” Bryn replied.

They made
their way around the busy marketplace and headed down one of the narrow, tree-lined avenues leading further into the city. Buildings rose two- and three-storeys high on either side of them, most containing shops on the ground floor. They sold foodstuffs, household items, and artisan’s crafts, with living spaces for the owners and other citizens on the upper floors.

Halam led Juniper through the winding streets, making turns here and there without any clear idea of where he was going, as far as Bryn could tell, the streets becoming narrower as they progressed.
As they rounded another corner, Bryn certain that they had gone in at least three circles already, a wide square opened before them. Tall buildings, some with domes, rose around the area. This square was completely different from the one they saw at the gate. There were no vendors yelling from stands set up, and fewer people moved about. Something else was different which Bryn couldn’t quite put his foot on, and then it hit him: this part of the city was actually quiet, something not encountered since they’d come through the gate.

Halam headed toward one of the smaller buildings to the side of an immense domed structure.

“This is the government district,” he said as he dismounted, helping Bryn down as well.

“It sure is quiet here,” Bryn observed.

“Yes, most business here is conducted during the day, when the government officials are in their offices.
At night all quiets down in this area of the city.”

Well-dressed couples walked through the square, their shadows flickering in the lamplight.
It seemed like an oasis in the middle of the city, a great place to get away from the constant barrage of noise and activity.

Halam watched Bryn looking around.
“The city watch discourages unsavory characters from frequenting the government district at night,” he said. “That’s why you see so few people. Only those who look respectable,” he gestured at a passing couple, “are allowed to stroll through this area after dark.”