Trials (11 page)

She raced downstairs into the wide corridor, decorated with rich blue tapestries. As she went she passed door after door of noble oak, behind which the Masters and Archivists were trying to decipher the enigmas of the universe, in an attempt to reach the utopian Supreme Knowledge in their different areas of learning. Soon enough, she would be helping Barnacus, her tutor and master Archivist of Ethnic Knowledge, to unravel one of the biggest secrets of all Tremia. Or at least, that was what Sonea hoped. They had spent endless hours at work, and the delivery from Rilentor might be the key which would finally help them reveal the mystery.

She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she did not really see the young apprentices she passed. She just caught a glance of their tunic - without the golden trimming at the collar which distinguished the Masters -, with the Great Eye on the chest and the wide scarlet-red girdle which marked them as students of the School of the Knowledge of War. Sonea turned her head to see who they were as they passed by and recognized a face which startled her. Before she could react, something unseen made her trip, and she fell to the floor. She stopped the fall with her knees and the palms of her hands, and the pain stabbed her through her arms and legs

“And where do you think you’re going in such a hurry?” a voice said in a stinging, contemptuous tone.

Sonea looked up to see three figures. Among them she saw her hated fellow-apprentice Rocol, whose mission in life seemed not to be studying and searching for wisdom, but torturing her and making her days at the Great Library a living hell. Sonea did not know why Rocol and his group of followers bullied and tortured her in a thousand different ways every time they had the slightest opportunity. As was the case now. They had tripped her on purpose so she would fall. Her palms stung.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you, apprentice of the Knowledge of War,” replied Sonea. She stared defiantly at the young man, feeling anger in the pit of her stomach.

“You owe me whatever explanations I ask you for,” said Rocol in a threatening voice. “Learn to respect your betters.”

Sonea stared at him, the anger growing within her. Rocol was more or less her own age. He was tall and strong, and his hair and eyes were as black as his heart: if he had one, which she doubted.

“You’re not my betters, no matter what you say!”

“Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror? You’re little and weedy, and that short hair of yours is so black and straight it makes you look as if you had a skunk on your head,” said Ucor, nodding at her.

“And don’t forget those huge bulgy eyes, dark as a sick toad’s,” said Isgor.

“I’m as intelligent as you are, and you know it!”

“Shut up, you apprentice of the pathetic School of Ethnic Knowledge!” retorted Isgor, who was big, wide as a barrel, with a huge doughy face.

“Studying war is more ridiculous than that!” said Sonea sharply.

“Let’s make this viper-tongued foreigner shut up,” said Ucor, who was thin and restless, with a face full of freckles.

“A beggar like you has no place among students and scholars,” Rocol said, pointing his finger at her chest menacingly.

“I’m not a beggar! I have every right to be here, just as much as you do.”

“How dare you address Librarians of Erenal, sons of the nobility, like that?” said Isgor, outraged.

“You’re apprentices just like me, and the fact that your families are wealthier or high-born doesn’t make you any better than me.”

“Silence, you ignorant simpleton!” cried Ucor with burning eyes.

Sonea stood up to face them, but as she bent her knees the pain returned, stinging and burning at the same time.

Isgor deliberately dropped the contents of the jar he was carrying in his arms all over Sonea’s head and back. “Oops, how clumsy of me,” he said, amusement in his voice.

“No…” cried Sonea, realizing it was writing ink. She could not wash it out, and her robe was ruined. She raised her fist to hit Rocol.

A strong thrust sent her backwards and she hit her head on the cold wall behind her. An intense pain overwhelmed her

“You dare raise your hand against a nobleman of Erenal? You? A bastard they left on the steps of this renowned order?” said Rocol.

“I’m no bastard!” she protested, struggling against the pain that gripped her.

“Everybody knows your mother was a cheap whore from Orecor, or some other city-state of the East,” Rocol went on.

“That’s not true!” cried Sonea, tears of rage and pain in her eyes.

“And your father was a drunken sailor who was happy to pay for services received,” said Ucor, laughing.

“Those are just lies you tell behind my back, baseless rumors you spread to blacken my name!”

“You say they’re lies?” Rocol sneered. “They’re nothing of the kind. I think the truth goes far beyond the rumors we hear about your past and where you come from.”

“I’m just an orphan, leave me in peace!”

“There’s no space for you among the elite of Erenal, among the Librarians, the guardians of knowledge,” said Isgor, his tone harsh.

“This is no place for a bastard. Only the brightest intellects are welcome here,” spat Ucor in her face.

“I passed all the tests of knowledge. My intellect is the same level as yours. I passed the tests the Council of the Five established, and you have no right.”

“Well, obviously you must have cheated!” said Rocol.

“That’s a lie! I would never do such a thing!”

“A beggar and a bastard could never pass the tests of knowledge unless she cheated,” said Rocol, with assurance.

“Lies! You lie! Leave me alone, I haven’t done anything to you!”

“Your mere presence on this sacred ground of knowledge is an offense to all of us,” said Ucor.

“I have as much right as you do. My background has nothing to do with my intellectual skills.”

“How dare you even think that!” Rocol said, his eyes like slits and his neck tense. “Of course it has everything to do with it. It’s widely known and an established rule. Only those of exalted breeding possess the intellect necessary to devote themselves to gaining wisdom within this great order.”

“That’s not true at all. There are apprentices, and even Masters, of humble origin who are as gifted as the others of noble lineage, if not more so.”

Rocol raised his fists in absolute fury.

“That’s complete nonsense! For over a century the Order of Knowledge has only admitted the most select youths of society for apprenticeship, because they’re the only ones with the intellect needed to become a scholar of the Great Library. The fact that King Dasleo allows exceptions to such a necessary rule as that is an abomination we’re forced to accept but one we must fight against. Don’t think we’re going to suffer it willingly or in silence. You and the few others like you represent a humiliating blemish on the illustrious history of this great order.”

“A very dark blemish,” said Isgor with a mocking grin, pointing at the ink that covered Sonea’s head and robe.

“You may slander me all you want, but you’ll never beat my will. That I swear!”

“Now you’ll see…” Rocol exploded, eyes red with rage, and pulled back his arm to punch her.

Sonea ducked, and Rocol’s fist hit the stone wall behind her.

There was a crack of crushed bones.

“
Arghhhh
!” cried Rocol in agony.

Sonea took advantage of this moment and ran away down the corridor, to the surprise of the three apprentices. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her while she heard the commotion behind her. They would chase her and make her pay dearly: she knew it, and her heart sank. Suddenly two Master Librarians came out of a study hall.

“Now what on earth is all this about?” said one of them in annoyance.

Sonea passed by without stopping. Her pursuers slowed down, then turned round and gave up the chase. Sonea, ran the length of the first basement level and down the spiral staircase to the third. Once there she raced along the corridor at top speed, to the dismay of the Master Librarians she had the misfortune to encounter. Finally, she reached her beloved Master’s hall which for some reason seemed to be in the deepest recess of the Great Library. She pushed the door forcefully and went in.

Barnacus, the master Archivist of Ethnic Knowledge, stared at her wide-eyed. He wore the Master’s robe of golden ocher, his long white hair was as disheveled as usual and his very white wrinkled skin, like parchment, showed his more than eighty-five winters.

“What the… By the gods of wisdom, child! Whatever happened to you?”

“Nothing, Master, don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

“You say
nothing
? And you look as if you had fallen head first into a barrel of ink. I bet those good-for-nothings of the school of war had something to do with it, am I right?”

“It’s really not worth it. Let it be, Master.”

“No and no again! I’ll go and talk to Inocus right away. He needs to rein in those bullies he has as apprentices. Oh, yes, right away...”

“It won’t be of any use, Master… Inocus protects and encourages them…”

“Well then, I shall speak to the Great Master. He’ll have to listen!”

Seeing how upset her dear good Master-Tutor was, Sonea decided to change the subject abruptly.

“What about the delivery? Is it here already?”

Barnacus looked at her, momentarily confused then pointed at the enormous carved-oak desk behind him.

“There it is. They just brought it in, a couple of minutes ago.”

Sonea rushed to the big package. She opened it quickly, but was careful not to damage the contents in her eagerness.

“Is it what we were waiting for?” asked Barnacus anxiously.

“Master, I believe what we have in front of us is the key that will help us unravel the greatest mystery of all times.”

“The enigma of the lost civilization…”

“Yes, Master, the Ilenian enigma.”

The city was burning like a funeral pyre, with hungry flames devouring everything in their path. The deep blue of the late afternoon was eclipsed by huge columns of smoke which rose towards the sky to obscure the entire horizon. The once-prosperous city of Drasden, architectural pride of eastern Rogdon, was shrouded in a cloud of suffocating black smoke, with ash pouring out of the sky like rain.

Two men in the Norghanian gala uniform contemplated the destruction of the city from a steep hill. Behind the men flags and banners flapped in the wind, showing the proud colors, red and white, of the Thunder Army. From the advantage of their position they could see the whole valley at their feet with the doomed city at the end of it. They were enjoying a great victory for their King Thoran of Norghana. The hellish show of fire, death and destruction was entirely the work of these two men, in accordance with the wishes of their Lord and Sovereign.

General Olagson grunted as he stretched his neck and exercised his big shoulders, “They held out for nearly a month!” The stripes which showed his rank shone brightly in the sun on that glorious evening.

“You owe me three barrels of your best beer,” General Rangulself replied with a half-smile as he wrapped his lean body closer in the red full-dress cape.

“Those damned Rogdonians did not surrender when they were supposed to. The siege should have ended long ago,” protested General Olagson as he watched the desolation his men had wreaked, pride glittering in his eyes.

“A bet is a bet…” said Rangulself with a grin as he scratched his eagle-beak nose.

“How come you always know these things? No other city of the North has held out so long before my men. When the Thunder Army advances the ground shakes and walls crumble.”

“You forget who we fight against, my friend,” said Rangulself with a gleam of intelligence in his brown eyes. “Those are Rogdonians, proud, strong. They will never yield, not one step. They will make us pay in blood for every city, every village and every farm we take. That is what they are like and thus we must acknowledge them.”

“In that case they shall all die, one by one! No one can beat our infantry. No one! With my ten thousand men under the Thunder Army banner and your ten thousand of the Snow Army, Rangulself, they will be unable to stop us. We are invincible!” bellowed Olagson showing his toothless mouth and the enormous scar that crossed his right cheek.

Rangulself laughed at his friend’s forcefulness. “I do not doubt that. You are strong as an ox and if you yell from your nearly seven feet of height you are ugly enough to make any enemy flee in terror. I am certain of it! But please, do hide some of that prominent stomach of yours, it grows by the day!”.

“More in my favor!” said General Olagson, raising his arms to show his friend the many battle scars that decorated them.

Rangulself’s face became serious.

“Do not be so sure. They have lost the city, but I assure you that their lancers are raiding the plains in search of lagging groups of our men as we speak.” The General put his hand above his eyes to scan the horizon to the West. “They will not face the bulk of our army here. We rely on twenty thousand good Norghanian infantry soldiers, and their own numbers are few. But their lancers, in small columns, will seek to weaken us with short sporadic attacks, particularly on our flanks and rearguard. Or at least that is what I would do if I were their General in command.”

“Damned cowards! Let them come and face our men. Or will we have to burn city after city, village after village until we reach Rilentor? We know King Solin is hiding in his fortified capital.”

Rangulself was thoughtful as he scanned the horizon.

“He cannot reckon with enough men to confront us, my friend. They are weakened from the defense of the Fortress of the Half Moon. Besides, with the Noceans in the South on the brink of taking Silanda they are in dire straits. If they send their main army to the East to try and stop our advance, Silanda will fall and the Noceans will enter the kingdom from the South. Their strength is diminished, they will not be able to defeat us because they do not have enough men. No, they will not risk it, or at least I would not if I had the command of their scant forces. I would fall back and wait for a better occasion… a miracle…”

An officer of the Thunder Army approached. After saluting, he informed them:

“My Lord, the city has fallen and the last survivors are fleeing south-westwards through the great forest. Shall we hunt them down?”

Olagson was about to reply, but before he did so he glanced covertly at his fellow in arms, who commanded the army at their feet. Rangulself half-turned his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yes, Captain Jonansen, send a thousand men to comb those woods and finish off all the Rogdonians you come across.” Rangulself ordered.

Olagson looked at him questioningly.

“Jonansen, have the rest of the infantry regroup and form a defensive perimeter on these hills” Rangulself added.

“At your command, sire!” said Jonansen and ran down to carry out his orders.

“What is bothering you? The enemy is defeated, the city destroyed…” Olagson asked raising a bushy eyebrow.

“We must protect ourselves from the Rogdonian Lancers. All the camps must be set atop defensible high ground against cavalry charges. Otherwise we shall pay dearly.”

“I understand… our infantry can do little against mounted lancers charging on their trained war horses. Infantry can only hold against cavalry in great numbers.”

“Indeed, my good General,” Rangulself smiled at his comrade’s understanding.

Olagson’s face shadowed as he saw Jonansen leave.

Rangulself guessed what he was thinking.

“I am aware that it is held as a merciful act, even courteous and civilized, to let the losers leave alive…” said General Rangulself with a noticeable hint of anger in his voice.

Olagson shook his big white-bear-of-the-snow-mountains body with visible unease. He watched the great city burn, the radiance which shone in the horizon tainting it orange with ever-more-bloody hues. Nothing would escape the devastating flames. Buildings crumbled before his eyes, thousands of people suffered a horrible death, either roasted by the fire or suffocated by the smoke. The Norghanian General thought that if he were able to choose, he would prefer suffocation.

“You know me well, my friend,” Rangulself went on, “You know I would never put the defeated to the sword. But these are direct orders from his Majesty, King Thoran. Our monarch wants them all dead, to the last Rogdonian who opposes the advance of our army.” He lowered his gaze to the tall grass of the hillside and kicked a small rock, which rolled downhill. “Orders are orders, my friend, you carry them out or you lose your head… particularly when they are royal orders.”

“Yes, I know… the madness of kings,” said Olagson, and spat on the ground.

Rangulself rubbed his hands restlessly, still thoughtful. He was somewhat smaller than the average Norghanian, so that even in his full-dress armor with its General insignia he looked like a child beside the gigantic Olagson. He was aware of it, but it did not bother him. He had learnt to accept his deficiencies as well as his virtues long ago. The former were physical and frowned upon by the Norghanians, and the latter which were intellectual, were even less highly-regarded among the rough men of the snow.

“Well I know our monarch’s temperamental character, as well as the risks of contradicting him,” he said with worry in his voice.

Olagson turned to him.

“It is rumored that you have fallen into disfavor with his Majesty. That is truly dangerous,” he said baldly.

Rangulself nodded.

“True, my life is in danger, comrade. I fear his Majesty might decide to do without my services in one of his rages… not only in this campaign but forever!”

Olagson snorted.

“It has to be on account of that business of the Assassin, am I right?”

“Yes, you are right. The responsibility of gathering information about who organized the murder of the Great Duke Orten, the King’s brother, was placed on my shoulders. And I failed. The King does not tolerate certain failures… as is well known at Court…”

“I rather believe you were betrayed by someone. That Assassin could not have killed all those men and escaped by himself.” Olagson said. He touched his hand to the long scar on his cheek as if it still hurt, although it had decorated his face for more than ten years.

“It’s an ugly and complicated matter which I must unravel. My life depends on it. Someone has conspired behind my back, acting in the sanctity of my own war camp, among my loyal soldiers. He has killed several of my men, and that is something I cannot and must not allow. I shall find the one who has dared affront me so, making me fall from the King’s grace and endangering my life. And when I unmask him… I shall have his eyes put out and then cut out his heart.”

“Well spoken! I assure you I had nothing to do with the matter. It is not my style. I prefer to be straightforward and put my sword through whoever it may be, or else simply trample him. It could have been that madman Odir, he is always brewing some mischief. Conspiracy is what that treacherous rat turns to most readily, and you know full well that you cannot trust him in any way. I can assure you, the conspirator will turn out to be that devious snake!”

Rangulself smiled at his friend’s vehemence.

“It is not appropriate to accuse a member of the renowned Norghanian army without any evidence, much less to accuse a General like Odir, no matter how little we like him or how vile his methods may be. Do not worry, my friend, I shall find whoever helped the Assassin escape. And when I do, blood will coat my sword.”

“If you were as good with your sword as you are with strategy and mind games, you would already be the first sword of the kingdom,” said Olagson.

Rangulself pointed at the finely-wrought sword hanging from Olagson’s waist, “We already have a General who is an expert swordsman. Better if I stick to the weapon the Gods of Ice saw fit to bless me with,” he finished, tapping his temple with his finger.

“Ah, you are so right!” said Olagson as he patted his friend’s back and began to laugh heartily.

His strength was such that Rangulself nearly fell on his face, but when he recovered his balance he too began to laugh with that great bear of the snows.

“And, tell me, my friend, how do you plan to find the traitor?” asked the Norghanian General.

Rangulself folded his hands behind his back.

“I have procured myself a worthy collaborator, with a special Gift for finding people…”

Olagson looked at him for a moment, intrigued, and at last exclaimed:” The tracker!”

“Indeed, my good friend.”

Lasgol remained hidden in the forest while the city of Drasden burnt to the skies behind him. Screams and shouts from the battle still sounded in the distance, but they were more muffled now. The Norghanian war horns filled the valley with their powerful sound and reached as far as the forest, so that flocks of birds took flight to the tops of the trees that surrounded him. The battle was won, the city had finally perished under a relentless siege by his fellow countrymen
.
The horns called to formation.

From his position he could see the hill where the two Generals gave their orders to their armies. He could not make them out properly, but he knew they were there. Unfortunately, they would allow the city to burn to ashes, and that saddened him. From what he knew, Drasden had been a beautiful and prosperous city, the pride of the Rogdonian counties of the East, where thousands of people enjoyed a peaceful existence which neither they nor their children or grandchildren would ever know again. That miserable war had done nothing but begin to sow pain and destruction, which would later on be reaped. Lasgol feared that the devastating consequences of this war would affect not only one but several generations of men and women.

Evil war and her atrocious aftermath…
he thought with growing disgust.

But Lasgol was not there for the sake of the war, or because of it. He would not serve evil purposes, not if it was in his hand to prevent it. His mission was very different: he had to find the one he had already captured and delivered to his own people.

He had to recapture the Assassin, Yakumo.

Lasgol was there by the wish of General Rangulself himself, a very special and secret requirement. He had been called when he was already back in Norghanian territory, just about to resume his duties and obligations in the service of the King. It would have been difficult to refuse a General, but Rangulself had left him without even the choice. He had with him a royal decree which gave him the authority to use all the Forest Rangers in the service of the King. Lasgol had bitterly cursed his bad luck. There was nothing he wished for less than to hunt the Assassin again, apart from taking part in that meaningless war he had sought and failed to prevent.

Hidden among the trees, he watched his fellow countrymen retire in order from the battlefield. The whole plain beside the forest was a red-and-white sea crowned by thousands of winged helmets. The soldiers of the Thunder Army, under the red-and-white banners, formed the first lines. After them the flags of the Snow Army gave way to lines of infantry in heavy scaled armor with white breastplates. It was a glorious sight for the Norghanians: the best infantry of the continent was victorious once more. Yet Lasgol felt only sadness, a heavy sadness which gnawed at his throat and would not let him swallow.