What Was Forgotten (8 page)

They covered nearly ten miles before resting again, and only because the carriage taking the monolith became stuck. The rain started shortly after they began the march. Most of Zayd’s men slept, something for which he was thankful; he took it to mean they were reassured by what he had said that morning. Zayd remained awake for a few hours before allowing himself a short rest.

The road became gradually wider and less distinct as the landscape became less confining. The hills sloped gently upward on either side of the column, though there were still spots where the trees grew thick, and every thicket to a wary eye was potential cover for an enemy, watching the column pass, waiting to strike.

The rain was light at first, and like the road they travelled, it was a long and gradual change until the point where the carriage became stuck in the mud, and everyone realized it was pouring. They had been marching in mud for almost an hour.

Zayd was awake then, and took six of his men to create a close perimeter around the column as it halted. The road was on a noticeable incline, making the task of freeing the carriage more difficult. Talazz strode over to the carriage and cracked his knuckles as he prepared to push the carriage. It sounded like tree branches snapping, startling a soldier who had peeled back the canvas to peer at the artifact underneath.

“You’re not to go near it,” Talazz bellowed, and hit the soldier with the back of his open hand. The blow took the man clean off his feet. He landed heavily on his back, dazed, embarrassed, and lighter several teeth. He spat out blood before shakily getting back on his feet. Some of the other Trueborn soldiers laughed. Zayd heard one remark how such a blow should rightly have killed him.

They spent almost half an hour trying to move the carriage, yet even with Talazz pushing, the horses were unable to gain traction on the muddy path. It was out of sheer habit that Zayd crouched, and as he scanned the surrounding hills, traced his family’s sigil into the earth. He stood and took a few aimless steps before he was knocked down from behind. Wiping mud from his eyes, he looked up to see Barrett Stern standing over him.

“This again!” Barrett shouted. He looked over and motioned to Areagus. “I knew it. This is some Tauthri hex you’ve placed on us.” Behind them, everyone turned to watch, even those who were working at the carriage. As Zayd tried to stand, the knight struck him with a mailed fist, once, twice… it was dizzying. Zayd was unsure if he was standing or prone, but Barrett was over him still, bringing his fist down again. He thought he saw blood on Barrett’s armoured fist. He tried to stand again but there was an immovable weight on him.

The knight’s fist was raised again when, in a blur of motion, he was shoved off. Zayd was half-blind from the mud and rain in his eyes, but he heard struggling over the ringing in his ears. Barrett was trying to curse with half-choked words. Zayd turned onto his side and saw Gavras grappling Barrett from behind, holding an arm under the knight’s throat. Barrett struggled wildly, his feet slipping in the mud. Other soldiers rushed to Barrett’s aid, but stopped as Talazz intervened, separating the two. The giant glared at the other soldiers who encroached on them, and they stopped in their tracks.

“That is bloody well enough!” All eyes were on Areagus. Even the rain seemed to quiet. “What is it now?” he demanded.

Stern did not hesitate. “I caught him drawing profane markings in the ground. All of this that’s happened… it’s because of him. He’s invoking something against us.”

Areagus looked to Zayd. “Explain.”

“It’s my family sigil.” Daggers of pain shot through Zayd’s jaw as he spoke. “Not invoking. Just a sigil. Sir.”

“That’s a damned lie,” Barrett spat. “I fought in the Tauthri conquest, sir. They place these markings everywhere. They’re unholy.”

Gavras would have lunged again at the knight, but Talazz held him in place with a firm hand.

Areagus was silent for a moment. The world around them seemed to wait on him. “I want to make something understood,” he said slowly. “Any more belligerent behaviour will result in relief of duty without pay. Any profane or unholy markings will result in imprisonment upon our return to Lycernum, as will any further infighting. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Zayd and Barrett said in unison.

Areagus motioned to Gavras. “And put him in irons for striking a superior officer.”

It was hours later before they were marching again. The rain came down heavier and the road became nothing more than numerous pools of ankle-deep water. Gavras, manacled at the hands and feet, sat in the covered wagon where the Tauthri scouts slept when they were not needed. He was at least spared from the miserable march; the ground was getting worse and worse with every passing minute. Zayd estimated that they were travelling at half speed at best.

Someone called a halt from the fore. Areagus had already stopped the column several times to check the maps with his lieutenants. With everything turned to mud, it was nearly impossible to tell what path they should be on.

“You’re the driest one of the whole lot,” Zayd said as he climbed up into the back of the carriage. “Remind me to put Barrett in a stranglehold next time it looks like it’s going to rain.” Gavras did not smile at the jape.

“I thought he was going to kill you,” Gavras said.

Zayd nodded. His bottom lip was still swollen and red. His cheek had needed to be stitched by one of Areagus’ half-trained lieutenants. “He wanted to.”

Gavras shook his head. “I know there is a history between you… but he didn’t behave this way during the siege. Why now?”

Many possibilities sprung up in Zayd’s mind. They had not been in such close proximity during the siege, and there was a lesser chance for a reprimand in this environment. But in truth Zayd thought it was not the history between them, but the after-effects of the siege itself. Enduring such prolonged violence and inhumanity made people inhumane.

“Fools need no reason,” Zayd said.

Gavras leaned forward. “I have a family,
vahr
. Has Areagus said…”

Zayd shook his head. “He won’t. Not for something so minor. He only had you restrained as a show of authority to us, and to the Trueborn. He’ll anger them if he’s lenient with us, but he also knows that he must still be fair with us.”

“Why would he think that?” Gavras asked. “He doesn’t need to be fair with us when all of our families are one writ away from death. We’re hostages. All of us.”

Zayd clenched his teeth, sending a sharp, hot pain through them. Gavras was right of course, but Zayd needed to play politic as much as the commander did. Despondency needed to be kept at bay like any other disease. “Because who else will guard them as they sleep? We only need to complete this task. Then you’ll have a new deployment. With the war at an end, it will be something mercifully uneventful, and you may even get a leave before that. Do you hear me? See this through, then see your family.”

Gavras remained silent, but eventually nodded in agreement. “If the commander gives the writ—”

“He won’t,” Zayd interrupted. “He won’t.”

Another long silence. Another nod.

Chapter 6

The Dramandi had been tracking the enemy for days. It was chance that brought them onto their trail, though some said it was the will of Aulvennic, the Guiding Star. Perhaps. But it was chance that they had not yet been spotted by the sentries. Not the
nasci
, those that called themselves Trueborn. These sentries were shorter, lithe, and muscular. They traversed the terrain effortlessly, like water spiders on a still pond. And their eyes – black as the night itself. Sera Naiat remembered seeing them from the walls of Yasri before she had fled the city. “They are not true Ryferians,” Cohvass had said.

“They are the Empire’s whelps. Subservient,” Sera had told him. She knew of the distant land of Tauth which rested to the north of Dramand beyond the Thalliar Mountains, but had never seen one of its children until a year into the war with Ryferia. “If they do not kill us all, that will be our fate. They will force us to abandon Aulvennic, they will force us to adopt their man-god, and they will force us to fight in their army against others like us.”

Cohvass sneered. “How can a god be mortal? Aulvennic carved his own place in the sky itself. No mortal could claim to do that.” That was at the beginning of the siege. Their armies were defeated, their soldiers were few, but the city was strong. They prayed and hoped, and in the first few weeks of the siege, it had seemed as though the Guiding Star would bless them with a victory.

But in one night they had lost thirty soldiers to the whelps. A handful of them had scaled one of the walls and stalked the ramparts like ghosts, killing fifteen before setting the outermost gatehouse on fire. And as the Dramandi were alerted, the ghosts killed fifteen more before slipping back over the wall. Sera’s sword-kin had only managed to kill two of the intruders, and only because they stayed behind to fight while their kinsmen escaped. The weapons they used – blades and arrows alike – were coloured black, impossible to see in the cover of night. As black as their eyes. It quickly became obvious to them that they could see in absolute darkness. She regretted having called them whelps. Her people started referring to them as
gattra
– the Dramandi term for an evil portent.

She thought of that night many times since, and remembered it as the beginning of their defeat, a fact they would not grasp until the very end. She and her sword-kin had been the ones who fought the two that stayed behind. She had never felt so helpless with a sword in her hand; the intruders emerged and vanished without warning. They killed three of her sword-kin all within a heartbeat of the other, warriors she knew since she first learned to wield a blade. She was the fourth in line, suddenly thrust to the fore. The first kill was luck; Toma Ronai charged at one of them and swung his axe. His enemy sidestepped and buried his blade in Toma’s side. Toma twisted as he fell, taking the blade with him. Sera caught the
gattra
with an upward swing as he bent down to try to retrieve his weapon. Before he collapsed, she pushed him back into his comrade, knocking him off balance, giving her time to land a lunging strike that pierced his chest.

She was already weeping for Toma. She did not notice her remaining sword-kin staring at her in the glow of the burning gatehouse, her face and long black hair slick with the blood of friend and foe.

They had to abandon the outer wall of the city after the burned skeleton of the gatehouse finally collapsed in a smoking heap. The Ryferian army encroached, and every day Yasri’s brave defenders rained missiles upon their camp. Arrows, rocks, pots of boiling oil. Whatever they could find. But every night, the darkness spat black arrows at them, and the morning always revealed the new dead who had been killed in silence. People began to ask her, “What do our ancestors tell us when you speak with them?”

“They tell us to have hope,” she told them. She had not heard them speak, but she thought their silence in itself was telling her to find the strength in herself, and that each man and woman must do the same. Yet each night, each day, more dead. It went like this for weeks. It seemed as if it would go on forever, and whenever anyone asked her what the spirits of the ancestors advised, she said, “Have hope.”

Hope began to erode. Many were wondering if Aulvennic had abandoned them. He seemed powerless or unwilling to protect them, even during his holy hour. That was when they were the most afraid of the night. And no matter how many of the
nasci
they killed on the walls or as they fought their way through the second outer ring of the city, their enemy remained undeterred.

A realization came to her on their holy day,
dram rei
, as the entire city celebrated how the Guiding Star had made peace with Ulrodin, the goddess of night, and she became his wife and gave him a throne in the night sky. She slipped into the sleep-like state to speak with the spirits of their ancestors in the evernight and was once again greeted by silence. She called out to them and heard her voice echo through the evernight, but she heard nothing back. She sensed one presence, and it was not one of the ancestors.

Stay away. You were buried. Stay buried.
It was amused. It spoke in some unknown dialect that grated against her senses. She did not understand it at all, but understood its mocking laugh.

It was then that she knew the spirits were gone. She ought to be able to sense their presence if they were there, even if they remained silent. But she could only sense one entity, the dark being that emerged when they had made the discovery under the temple…

That night, she gathered as many as she could and told them the truth. She told them they had been abandoned, that Aulvennic could no longer protect them here, but many of the soldiers refused to leave.

Jass Johain had fought the Ryferians in the field and now led the city’s defense after his last defeat. “I know their tactics,” he urged. “If we can hold out for longer, we will have victory.” Some agreed. Some refused to believe Sera, thinking it impossible that the ancestors had disappeared.

It was only when the enemy were at Yras’ Shield, the great iron door and last defensive point left in the city, that Cohvass relented and convinced his cousins, their families, and his sword-kin that they must follow Sera.