Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (14 page)

The skies were calm above Gresadia as the sun began to set. The purples and blues of the east gradually shifted into pinks and yellows in the west. Aelmuligo climbed higher into the heavens, brightening as it caught more and more of the sun’s light from the other side of the globe.

On the ground, a carpet of dark forest encapsulated Lake Thuluc, the country’s largest contained body of water. It mirrored the sky but tainted its reflection with an irony blue-grey hue.

Gilderam
was a pitiful sight. Chilly evening air blasted through the hole in the bridge window. Bullet holes peppered the hull and engine casing. Vast sections of the balloon sagged where it had been pierced. They had navigated the winds long enough to find a fueling station, and now her one solitary engine chugged away, barely able to move the vessel through the air at all anymore. It would be enough to get them back to New Gresad, Galif promised, but after that she’d be going nowhere for a while.

Fulo opened the door to the quarterdeck and brought Vrei inside. Shazahd was waiting, reclined on a large leather chair watching wood crackle in the fireplace. Her Chief Steward, Pawl, was seated in an adjacent chair. Vrei noticed the shrine along the far wall, a tabernacle representing all twelve gods. She wondered at the value of the gold it was made of. 

“Come in,” bid Shazahd. Vrei approached her, and Fulo stayed close. “What is your name?”

“Vrei.”

“What’s your full name?”

She swallowed. “Vreilovethra Maebrelozus.”

Shazahd surveyed her for a long time. Her joints ached from the rapid ascent earlier that day and every movement, even breathing, was incredibly painful. “You saved my life,” she said at last.

“The old man,” said Vrei. “He made a promise.” She nodded in the direction of Fulo, who had his finger on the trigger of his gun.

“I know about your agreement and I intend to honor it.” Shazahd gave Fulo a look. He protested with his eyes. “You may leave us, Sergeant.”

“She’s a pirate –!”

“
Now
. That will be all. Thank you.” Fulo grunted his disgust and stomped out of the quarterdeck. Vrei watched him go. “So, Vr….”

“Vrei.”

“Vrei. You certainly seem to know your way around a bridge. Have you worked at the helm?”

“I was Captain.”

“Really? A woman captain?” Vrei nodded. “Of a pirate ship? I’ve only heard of one female pirate captain, and she –” Shazahd’s jaw dropped as the realization clicked. Vrei stared calmly back. “…There’s no way….” Vrei gave the tiniest of smirks.

“
Threithumé
,” Pawl muttered. “You’re the Raven Queen….”

“Well,” said Shazahd after a moment. “It’s an honor to meet you …
Captain
.”

“Now that you know who I am,” said Vrei, “don’t you want to call your guard back? He’s right outside.” She indicated the closed door leading out into the hall. They could all plainly see the light shift along the floor as Fulo adjusted his stance.

“No,” said Shazahd. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Why not? What makes you trust me?”

“Yes,” Pawl added a little anxiously. “What, exactly?”

“What are you going to do?” Shazahd said simply. “You can’t return to the pirates. They’ll kill you for having been caught. You can’t return to land either. The Empire will hunt you down and hang you for piracy. In fact, you’re really only safe for as long as you stay on this ship, so I think the question you
should
be asking is this: …why don’t
you
start trusting
me?
”

“Trust you? A few hours ago I was trying to kill you.”

“I think you’re a smart woman, Vrei, and killing me would be a terrible business move on your part.”

Vrei raised an eyebrow. “Business move? All I want is my freedom.”

“You have your freedom,” Shazahd said. “When we reach New Gresad, you’re free to go. But I want to offer you something else. I want to offer you a job.”

“A
job?!
” Pawl exclaimed.

“How would you like to captain the greatest ship ever built?”

“Shazahd, you can’t!” said Pawl, nearly shooting out of his chair. “Your father –!”

“My
father
has locked himself in his chamber and that puts
me
in charge of his barony, which includes this ship and its crew.” Pawl sank back into his chair. “So… what do you say?”

Vrei examined her carefully. “What makes you think I won’t slit your throat and take the ship for myself?”

Shazahd smiled. “It would be unwise to kill your employer,” she said, rising, “when they pay you so well.” She crossed to Pawl and asked him for the checkbook. His eyes pleaded with her. “The
checkbook
… please.” He handed it over. She scribbled on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it to Vrei. Her eyes turned to saucers when she saw the amount.

“This is a promissory note for the first half. You’ll get the rest when we arrive at the Inner City.”

“The Inner City? Impossible. No ship sails above Divar. They’ll shoot you down before you –”

“We
will
sail to the Inner City.” Shazahd brushed her hair back behind one of her ears.

“I see,” said Vrei.

“I’m promised to an elf there.”

“Aren’t you a little young? I thought elves generally married in their sixties?” Shazahd was unmoving. Vrei shrugged. “Besides,” she went on, “no human has set foot there in over a thousand years. How do you think they’ll welcome us?”

“They’ll make an exception.”

“An
exception?
”

“Here,” Shazahd dug into one of Pawl’s pockets, pulled out a handful of coins, and poured them into Vrei’s hands. “This is your signing bonus.”

Vrei was astonished. “But how…?” she said meekly. “I… I –”

“You’re a captain. I’m in need of a good one to get us to Divar.” Vrei searched her face. “Look,” Shazahd went on, “I know you’ve made some mistakes. We all do. But that doesn’t mean we don’t get to go on living afterward. So what do you say?”

“…The greatest ship ever built, huh?”

Shazahd smiled broadly. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

The door to the quarterdeck opened and Owein entered from the hall. He was limping badly. Fulo glared from outside as the door swung close.

“Lady Ranaloc,” he said, and Shazahd raised an eyebrow. “I mean – Mistress,” he corrected.

“Commander Maeriod. Meet your new Captain.”

“Howdy,” he said perfunctorily, then to Shazahd, “Can I talk to you?”

“Pawl,” said Shazahd, “please introduce Captain Vrei to the crew, would you?”

“Of course, Mistress,” he said through gritted teeth, and led Vrei out of the room. Fulo followed them down the hall.

“So,” Shazahd said to Owein once they were alone. She sat carefully back in her chair by the fire, biting her lip to keep from groaning as her joints complained. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I… I – uh….” Owein’s eyes darted around the quarterdeck. “I suppose you might have a few questions for me.” She made no reply. “And that’s fair. So I… I thought I’d save you the trouble of asking and just tell you a story.” Owein hobbled to a couch opposite the fireplace and fell on it. He sighed slowly and painfully. Shazahd suspected the pain was more than physical. 

“During the Invasion of Shinira,” he began, “I was given command of an outpost along the frontier. That was a bit unusual for a commander – I was replacing a brigadier. It was such a great honor, I… I suppose that should’ve been my first clue. Anyway, the brigadier was transferred because he couldn’t keep the natives in line. My superiors thought I’d be a better man for the job. Or at least that’s what they told me.”

His eyes flitted over to Shazahd. Her heartroot necklace was slowly pulsating, rhythmically bathing her with green light like the ebb and flow of an ocean tide. Her face was serene, patient.

“First Quarter I’m there, storehouse gets raided. Everything’s gone – mostly food, some supplies – and all our wine, unfortunately. So I start asking around, nicely at first, but of course no one knows what happened. There’s no trace of it. It just vanished. Then I hear from my superiors. They’re pretty upset. Enraged, actually. They threaten to do all kinds of nasty things if I can’t find those supplies. I was young then… a brand new commander. Hotheaded. Overconfident. But most of all, stupid. So I –” Owein’s eyes darted around, as though he were searching for something on the shrine. He swallowed.

“I did some pretty bad things,” he said. “Looking for those supplies… I thought if I could….” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It haunts me to this day. But at the time, all I could think of was how could those
mlec
Shinirans still not talk? It didn’t make any sense. How could a little flour and sugar be so important to them…? I began to sympathize with the brigadier. If they could hold out on me like this, if they could keep it a secret despite everything…
I
did
… then no wonder he couldn’t control them. No one could. These weren’t people. They were…” Owein saw that Shazahd was frozen still. “I don’t know what they were. So one day we get a tip. This kid comes to Fulo to tell him he has a clue that might help us.”

“Fulo?”
“Yeah, the same.”

“Why didn’t the kid come to you?”

“Hmpf,” Owein snorted. “Too scared, probably.” Shazahd didn’t realize she was clenching her fists. “Fulo follows this kid on a trail heading west, back toward Gresadia. He takes him to the last place we thought to look – one of our older encampments. Not too far away. The place had been abandoned for a couple years. Sure enough, there’s the supply cache. All of it. Barrels and barrels of food… just crawling with maggots. Some of the wine was still good, though.”

“You mean it’d been left to rot?”

“Every last bit. The encampment was within my territory, so during the court-martialing I was tried for treason and sabotage in addition to the other war crimes. I was found guilty for everything but treason.”

“That’s good. Treason’s a hanging offense.”

“Yeah, real good. Instead I got a much slower death sentence: eight years in Ceshgan, for which I can thank our late friend Councilor Thalius. He was the judge who sentenced me. Which brings us to the moral of the story.” Owein pushed himself upright. “I served my time. I even survived it. Whatever crime they think I’ve committed – whatever was written on that warrant – it’s not true. I may have made some mistakes in the past, but I’ve paid for them. At some point I should get to go on with my life.”

Shazahd’s mouth fell open.

Owein took a long breath. “When we get to New Gresad, there’s a friend I’m going to see. He… hears a lot. If anyone’s looking for me, he’ll know about it. And he might even know why.” Owein stared around the room, eventually fixating on something in the darkness.

“Did you ever find out who stole the supplies?” Shazahd asked. She watched the hinges of his jaw flex and shift and flex again, refusing to remain still.

“I know who it was.”

Shazahd waited for him to finish, but he didn’t. “Why didn’t you clear your name then?” she asked.

“There’s not enough evidence in the world to convict a colonel.”

“A colonel?”

“But if I ever see him again….”

Shazahd saw something in Owein’s eyes that truly frightened her. It wasn’t rage, it wasn’t hatred, it wasn’t even strife… it was calm. An impenetrable, unshakable calm. Despite the terrible story Owein had just told her, he appeared perfectly collected and relaxed – impossibly cool. She didn’t want to hear the rest of what he had started to say.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Excruciating.”

“Me too….”

Owein blinked with a sudden awareness, as if he had just awoken from a dream.

“Well,” he said. “I just thought you ought to know.” And he dragged himself from the couch to amble toward the door.

“Hey,” Shazahd said, stopping him halfway into the hall. “Thanks.”

“For what?” He didn’t turn around.

“For what you did back there. I… I appreciate it.”

In the pause, Owein might have been thinking of something to say. But instead he cleared his throat and disappeared into the hallway.

As the purple glow of twilight died away, Havlah stared with fascination at the rim of the Rwahji Crater. It was a sheer wall rising straight up out of the earth, maybe fifteen
entilum
high, and its top leveled off onto a plateau. The wall was a great ring spanning more than three
itthum
in diameter, and on the inside of the ring the wall fell almost as steeply as on its outside, forming a deep, sandy bowl.

North of the Crater was the Valan encampment, a low sea of tents. Beyond, to the west, the mighty mountains of Saria scraped at the dimming sky like the teeth of a jagged saw blade.

Jerahd led his son to the tuff ring of the Crater and around its edge to the encampment. Now that it was getting dark, Havlah could not estimate the size of the force assembled there. Any fires had been carefully concealed inside tents, permitting no light to escape and reveal their location. Starry light made the entire army appear to be nothing more than a patch of rock in the shadow of the great bowl. 

The supreme commander of the army of Val,
Nal Modjiri
Fahi, stood on the plateau atop the rim of the Crater. The crystalline sand within the bowl glowed beneath the bright beacon of Aelmuligo. The nearing planet illuminated the desert almost like a second sun.

He overlooked the Crater, its steep circular wall, and the sloping sand floor that descended from it.
If Aelmuligo fell from the heavens
, he thought,
it might land comfortably in this bowl
. Far away in its center, a curious ledge of stone popped out of the sand like an altar in an earthen amphitheater.

It was no great wonder to Fahi, taking it in, that this unusual formation had held such a revered place in the hearts and minds of all who had seen or heard of it. Clearly this place bore the architectural signature of the divine.

He drew in a deep breath of cool air and allowed himself to be transported back to his younger years as a pupil. In his tiny desert village of
Esh Imlan
, like so many of his kinsmen, he had been taught to read from the Book of Teric. The Book itself, it is said, was delivered to Mankind at this very Crater. In its final chapter, called Nightfall, it recounts the mysteries of death and the afterlife, and also prophesizes the end of the world.

The god Thuldarus, brother of Geithoron, had been imprisoned beneath the surface of the earth for attempting to usurp control over Vuora during its creation. There he was to remain for all time – unless someone could unlock the door to his godly prison. His four children were the first to try, convincing the race of Man to aid them, but they were no match for the rest of the Pantheon, and in the ensuing struggle the four god-children were destroyed. According to the myth, there was only one figure in history capable of freeing the Dark Lord: a mortal man known as Feth.

Feth was undoubtedly the most powerful sorcerer ever born. He made a deal with Thuldarus and again enlisted the aid of Mankind to wage war upon the gods, the masters of Vuora. This time Thuldarus was unleashed, and an awesome and terrible duel between he and his brother, Geithoron, King of the Gods, ensued.

In the end, Thuldarus could not defeat his brother, and was thrown back into subterranean bondage. Afterward the gods concluded that merely banishing Thuldarus was not enough, and so they likewise sentenced the soul of Feth to an eternity of incarceration.

He was entombed in the desert of Val, a place infamous for its treacherous elements and impervious terrain. No one but the native desert people could hope to survive there, and certainly even they were known to lose themselves in its endless dune ocean on occasion. The location of the Tomb is said to be enchanted so that no one can find it, and those who have gone in search believe sandstorms must move it around to elude pursuers – or that it doesn’t exist at all.

From the Rwahji Crater, Fahi knew, the dark spirit of Thuldarus would direct his servants to the Tomb of Feth. According to the prophecy, Thuldarus’ magic would somehow manipulate the earth itself to show them the way. The horde had to come here first if they wanted to find the Tomb, and it fell to the army of Val to stop them.

A rock tumbled down the escarpment behind him. Someone was climbing up.

“Sir!” a soldier called. “
Rariji
Jerahd is here!”

A smile curled Fahi’s lips.

“Thank the gods. Bring him to my tent.”

Jerahd and Havlah were led to the largest tent, Fahi’s field office. A few candles provided minimal light. There was a single low table covered in maps, surrounded by sitting pillows. Storage chests were piled haphazardly near the tent walls.

“Jerahd! At last!” Fahi rose to greet them, and Havlah noticed the calligraphic tattoos beneath his eyes – just like his father’s. The thin man gripped hands with Jerahd, which struck Havlah as a little odd. The usual greeting, especially between adult males, was to touch one’s hand to the forehead, then to the heart, and to bow.

“We were beginning to think you wouldn’t make it in time,” said Fahi. “And who is this?”

“My son, Havlah.”

Fahi looked incredulously from father to son and back.

“Your son? You…?”

“The
Agnari
wished it.”

Fahi nodded. “I see. To be honest, Jerahd, I didn’t believe you’d return to us at all.”

“Neither did I.”

The two stood silently for a moment, holding one another’s gaze.

“The
Agnari
wished that as well?” asked Fahi.

“He did.”

“So then… it’s just as well.” Fahi circled the table and indicated a location on the maps. “Our scouts report that the enemy is only a few
itthum
away and will be here before daybreak. As you could expect, –”

“What about
their
scouts?” Havlah blurted. He regretted it immediately. Fahi’s expression cued him to explain himself. “Well…” he said, “you mentioned our scouts. Don’t they have scouts? Won’t they know about us waiting here for them?”

Fahi looked to Jerahd, but then said, “Yes, they have sent many scouts. But none, I’m afraid, has made it back alive to report. Not since they stepped foot into Val.”

“The desert is our home,” said Jerahd. “It takes care of its own.”

“As I was saying…” Fahi returned his attention to the maps. “We’re grossly outnumbered. Volunteers keep showing up, but at last count our force numbered about twelve thousand strong.”

“And the horde?”

Fahi swallowed. His eyes met Jerahd’s.

“Our scouts estimate well over thirty thousand.” Suddenly Havlah wanted to sit down, but Fahi went on. “
Rariji
Nibqah will be leading the regulars. The plan is to ambush them within the Crater with an attack from the north,” he pointed it out on the map. “The Disciples will move in behind the horde before the battle begins and provide support from the south.”

“How many Disciples do we have?” asked Jerahd.

“All that remain. Just under four hundred.”

Fahi fell into his cushion behind the table. He sat hunched over, weighed down by more than just an aging body.

“It goes without saying,” he said, “that should we fail to stop the horde here, Val will be unable to pose any further resistance.”

“And our allies?”

Fahi scoffed.

“Allies…” he muttered, shaking his head. Though the only other Disciple Havlah had ever known until now had been his own father, he could sense that there was something uncharacteristic about this reaction.

“Saria,” said Fahi, “has not so much as even replied to our petitions. Their government, as you well know, is in shambles because their rulers are too busy assassinating each other to make any real decisions. The Avladians have rejected us outright. They see this as an external affair and are not interested in risking their own lives for what they believe is a religiously motivated war. Which, of course, it is. The Zunirans agree with them, though they have no army to aid us with even if they didn’t. Meanwhile the Gresadians are about to launch the largest fleet of skyships the world has ever seen against Divar, and since that is sure to be a magnificent bloodbath for both sides, neither of them can spare a coin for our cause. This night we are truly alone.”

Jerahd contemplated this for a second, then asked simply, “What are my orders?”

“Prepare for battle. They will be here before sunrise.”

Havlah walked beside his father through the camp as the desert soldiers of Val, the
hapali
,
readied themselves for war.

“Father,” said Havlah. “How can we fight this war when we are so outnumb–”

Jerahd grabbed his son by the mouth.

“Silence!” he hissed. Havlah was surprised to see his father so suddenly intense. He released him and said, “What you have heard in there you must not repeat. To anyone.”

Havlah’s expression beseeched his father. Jerahd took a deep breath and began walking again. He spoke quietly to Havlah.

“If these men are to have any chance at all, they must have the highest morale. To know the odds would sap their spirits and seal the outcome of this battle before it was even begun. In this case, my son, ignorance is our ally.”

Havlah pondered these words as he and his father made their way to the other Disciples. Along their route they passed young boys and old men practicing swordplay or readying their gear. Few of them looked like real warriors to Havlah. The people he saw looked instead like regular folk, common people he might meet in the bazaar back home. They were out of place wearing armor, and they held their weapons more like a clunky tool than a fluid extension of their body.

By contrast, however, the Disciples looked like they were born for this night. Even without the distinctive markings on their cheeks, Havlah would have been able to tell they were the warrior priests of Votoc through their countenance alone. Their faces were carved stone, hard and serene. None of them wore armor; instead, they were dressed like simple desert dwellers in dark cloaks and worn robes.

Havlah noticed that there were no young Disciples. The youngest one among them might have been Havlah’s own father, and he was getting to be an old man. A few looked so ancient and wrinkled that Havlah couldn’t imagine they would be much use in a war at all. He observed them carefully as they prepared for battle, and noted that even their simplest movements were smooth and flawless. Despite their aged appearance, their bodies were at least as spry as his own.

As they passed the Disciples, each would lock eyes with Jerahd and salute him the proper way, by touching their fingers to their forehead, then to their heart, then bowing as their hand swung outward. Jerahd touched his own forehead and nodded in return. They all seemed to recognize each other, but no one spoke a word.

At last the pair found an open space.

“Set up the tent,” said Jerahd. “I’ll be back.” He unloaded his gear on the ground and then departed, leaving Havlah alone for the first time since they left home. Fumbling in the half-light of Aelmuligo, he did as he was asked.

Jerahd returned with a sword and sheath and gave them to Havlah. Without explanation he entered the tent and knelt down in it to pray.

Havlah strapped the sheath to his belt and practiced drawing the sword. It was a typical weapon for desert people, a simple, elegantly curved shamshir. As he grew better accustomed to it, he began to practice the strikes and slashes his father had shown him. He swung high, then low, jabbed, and blocked.

“You’re pretty good with a blade,” said a stranger’s voice.

Havlah nearly fell over with surprise. The voice belonged to a dark man with the markings of a Disciple. He was walking toward him.

“A natural. Tell me, did your father teach you?”

“A little.”

“Just a little?” He was clearly amused.

“In the past few days.”

The man held out his hand for the sword. Havlah was reluctant at first, but gave it to him. The stranger turned it over in his hands, inspecting it thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what’s more impressive, then,” the man said. “Jerahd’s ability to teach, or your ability to learn.” He smiled. When he did, he appeared very young, perhaps only a few years older than Havlah. But something in his eyes said that he must be much, much older.

“My name is Gezia,” he said, and touched his fingers to his forehead, then to his chest, and then let his hand down slowly as he bowed solemnly. “I have known your father for many years.” He returned the sword. “A fine blade.”

“Thank you.”

Gezia took a couple steps back.

“Now,” he said. “Strike at me.”

Havlah only stared.

“Come on,” he insisted. “Take a swing.” He opened his arms and smiled welcomingly. Havlah didn’t move.

“Well, come on now,” said Gezia. “I need to see how much you’ve learned. Go ahead.” He braced himself casually. Havlah sized him up and cautiously lifted his sword.