The Chimaera Regiment (14 page)

Martin laughed. “Do you need me to spy on him for you, too? I’m already the one who has to kill him; you don’t even pay attention to what he does when you set him loose on the countryside?” He stepped closer, jabbing his finger at Hector, “He has lied to you, man. He spoke with the Termessians until he convinced them to organize against you, and he killed the warrior queen in a duel, forcing her people to do the same.” Folguen looked at Hector with concern. Martin continued with another laugh, “Don’t believe me? Ask him yourself!”

Folguen scowled more sharply at Hector, demanding an answer. The Alkimite apologized, “I had to be sure that Eitromal would hold up his end. He’s done nothing but lie to me since we arrived. I had to guarantee the safety of my friends.”

Slowly, Folguen turned to his three companions. Evan, Dobro, and Zadok each nodded. The former arena guard turned back to Hector and said with a smile, “It’s about time somebody stood up to that cretin.”

Martin snarled, “You inconsequential lout! You pathetic miscreant! Craven cur!” He reached for his sword, shouting, “How dare you defy me?”

Before he could take another step, Zadok lunged and ran him through. Immediately, three arrows pierced the Keldan warrior, two in his chest and one in his stomach. Zadok fell to his knees as the other Keldans leapt to their feet.

Battle cries broke the late evening calm. Hector took Martin’s sword and withdrew Zadok’s from the corpse. He handed Zadok’s weapon to Fornein. A Leonite tore past the trees, weapon held high; Hector slashed his chest and Fornein stabbed him between the ribs. The man went down.

Sounds of combat surrounded them. Hector turned to look at Folguen; in the dim light, the Keldan met his eye. “Run, man!” the guard roared over the din, “Save your friends!”

Hector glanced back and saw that the way was clear; without Martin’s leadership, the Leonite troop was attacking aimlessly. Hector nodded at Folguen, knowing he could never truly convey his thanks to the man; then he grabbed Fornein by the arm and took off into the dusk.

They had run southerly through the trees at full tilt for nearly fifteen minutes when Fornein began to gasp and heave, unable to catch his breath. Hector stopped and reached to help the man, but Fornein pushed him away. “Go!” the old hermit said angrily, “I’ll catch up. You have to get to Eitromal before he hears of this, or he’ll kill them both.” Hector hesitated, unwilling to abandon the old man. But Fornein pointed to the southeast and shouted again, “Go!”

Hector nodded, and into the dark forest he went.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-ninth of the month of Ennemen

Early in the first hour

As the sun rose on the Keldan village the next morning, Hector hugged the treeline. The obelisk stood tall and daunting; it had come to symbolize the Keldans’ tyranny in Hector’s mind, far more than it represented the task given to him by Aneirin. Reaching that tower of stones was still his goal, but in earnest, he hoped to topple it, not learn from it.

Keldan lands were quiet. There was only one guard stationed outside Eitromal’s court. Hector had seen no other soldiers or citizens as he crept through the woods. Birds chirped their good mornings and the smell of dew and damp loam wafted up from the earth.

Taking advantage of the guard’s isolation, Hector sneaked up in his blind spot, directly behind the great hall. He stepped gingerly along the wall, keeping low to avoid casting his shadow across the thin windows. As he reached the front corner of the structure, he peeked around its edge.

The guard was awake, but barely. He had probably been the only man there all night, and he seemed propped up by his own spear. Hector sidled up behind him and tried to knock him out stealthily. He clamped one hand over the man’s mouth and wrapped his other forearm across his neck, squeezing as hard as he could.

The man instantly came awake, flailing and trying to call out for help. His screams were heavily muffled, so that they sounded only like alarmed mumbling, and soon, his exhaustion took its toll. He fell limp, and Hector laid the unconscious man down as gently as he could. Turning, he slipped into the great hall.

The building’s decorations were not as artful as Hector remembered. In fact, it seemed that Eitromal had torn down his many tapestries and overturned his furniture in a rage. The whole place was a mess of splintered wood and torn fabrics. No torches were lit; the only light in the room streaked in through the narrow windows along the sides of the hall.

Eitromal himself, wiry and haggard, sat slumped on his throne, his shoulders slouched and his face buried in his hands. Everything about the lord seemed frail, a sharp contrast to when Hector had seen him last.

In spite of Hector’s best efforts, a sudden gust of wind slammed shut the door to the hall. Eitromal glanced up, a spark of anger in his eye. “I gave orders not to be—” He cut himself off as he recognized his visitor.

Hector decided to embrace being discovered. He cast off his furtive demeanor and stood tall, striding into the midst of the disarray. Seeing Eitromal’s alarm, he inquired casually, “Were you expecting someone else?”

Eitromal’s jaw quivered, and his eyes narrowed. But then the fire in his spirit waned, and he dropped his eyes back to the floor. “Do you know what you have cost me?” he asked.

Hector felt a surge of anger, but he suppressed his retort. Eitromal had taken far more from Hector than the reverse, but the Alkimite knew he could do no good now by arguing with the lord. Instead, he offered, “If you’re worried about the captain of the Chimaera Regiment, he’s dead.”

Eitromal looked up in surprise, but he tried to hide it with anger. “I’m not afraid of one captain, boy!” he answered, “But without your head on a plate, I do fear the whole army.” He shook his head slowly, lamenting, “I had but one task, and I could not complete it.”

Hector stepped closer. “Your task was unjust,” he said, “Join me, and fight the Regiment. There is still time.”

The door to the hall burst open, and Veither charged in, followed by two of his men. Their breathing was ragged and their clothes were torn. Veither, who surely saw the guard unconscious outside, was not surprised to see Hector alone with Eitromal. Even so, the sight gave him a moment’s hesitation—then he pressed past the Alkimite and reported, “My lord, there are invaders at the edge of the forest—a great army. They attacked us on sight; only these two men remain. They are only a day’s march away.”

Eitromal turned to Hector. “You see, boy? My time has passed.” He stood and stepped off his dais toward Hector, staying just out of arm’s reach. “But perhaps,” he said, drawing his sword, “they will still spare me if I give them your head!”

He swung wildly, aiming for his enemy’s neck. After Hector’s duel with the Emmetchan queen, Eitromal seemed trapped in honey. His movements were almost sluggish. The Alkimite easily stepped back from the first stroke, then the second. He did not draw the sword he had taken from Captain Martin.

The attacks continued, but Hector decided to cut them short. He sidestepped past another swing and grabbed Eitromal’s wrist. He twisted it sharply. The Keldan lord yelped and loosened his grasp; Hector shifted his grip and took the man’s sword, then released him.

Eitromal fell backward, grimacing. He glared at Veither. “Kill him!” the lord snapped.

Veither stepped forward, reaching for his blade, but Hector was quick. He held the Keldan chieftain’s sword up, resting its point on Veither’s collarbone. “I’m not running, Veither,” Hector menaced, “This isn’t your chase.”

The hunter swallowed hard, then bowed his head and stepped back. Eitromal was furious. “What are you doing?” he roared, “Just kill him!”

Hector said, “I have done all that you have asked. I have slain many men in your arena—the very same arena where my companion, Lord Brynjar, died for your amusement. By the strength of my arm, I convinced the Termessians and the Emmetchae to leave your borders in peace.” He knelt beside the wretched man. “I have saved your people, just as you asked. Is this how you thank me?”

Eitromal sneered. He spat, “Your death would have saved my people! Now the Chimaera Regiment will surely kill us all.”

Hector shook his head. “The Chimaera Regiment will not bear allies,” he answered, “In time, you would be enslaved, and your people would cease to exist. Do you walk willingly to your death because you fear dying in battle? What cowardice is this?”

Eitromal’s expression twisted into a deeper scowl of hatred. “We cannot stand against him,” he replied, “I would rather have a chance of survival than face certain death.”

Hector laughed in condescension. “All men face certain death, Eitromal,” he said, dropping all pretense of respect, “for all men die. The only questions that remain are how and when.” His eyes were full of pity as he watched the wiry man cower before him. “Do you really wish to die at the whim of another?”

Eitromal did not answer, but his face quivered and hot tears of anger rolled down his sunken cheeks. Hector stood, shaking his head sadly. “If you would kill me to preserve your people for Derek’s chains,” he said, and he dropped Eitromal’s sword to the floor with a clang, “there is your weapon.”

Eitromal hesitated, suspecting a trick. When Hector backed away and drew his own sword, the Keldan snatched up the blade and scrambled to his feet. He held the weapon out in a combat stance, but his hands quaked. He looked across his hall to Hector, who stood tall and still, his own arm solid as a stone.

At last, his nerve failed him. He dropped the sword and took flight, darting past Hector toward his escape. The Alkimite let him go; slowly, he sheathed his blade.

Suddenly, as he passed through the door, Eitromal squealed in agony. He stumbled back into the hall, grasping at his stomach. Blood poured from a deep gash there. He collapsed on the floor, face-down, and Hector saw that he had been completely run through. Fearing that the Regiment had already arrived, Hector drew his sword and prepared himself.

But a sense of relief, mixed with horror, washed over him: the assailant was only Fornein, just arrived from the long night on the run.

Hector was about to admonish the old hermit for his actions when Fornein accused him, “You were letting that foul wretch go, after everything he’s done?” He spat on Eitromal’s corpse, now staining the floor with his blood, and continued, “He imprisoned those you love! He ordered the death of your friend! He did everything in his power to see you dead!”

Hector answered, “You do not blame a snake for being a snake. If you can cut out its fangs, it is no harm to anyone.”

“He’s not the snake!” Fornein retorted savagely, “He’s the poison! This tribe once ruled this whole forest, with power and grace! His actions alone led to its downfall! He built the arena and slaughtered slaves for his delight! He took whatever woman he fancied and threw any who refused into the arena! He was the worst of men!”

Hector did not disagree, but he knew that Carys, queen of the gods, called for mercy even toward hated enemies; he recalled Bronwyn’s admonition,
Remember that a true hero shows mercy.
He started, “Fornein—”

The old man interrupted, yelling, “He killed my family!”

Hector stopped cold, stunned. He did not know how to answer.

Fornein explained, “I was a Keldan, once. I was the Storyteller for the tribe. My wife was beautiful, and I loved her dearly. But Eitromal wanted her, and when she turned him down, out of her devotion to the gods and her love for me, he cast her into the arena—together with our four sons and two daughters.” His voice broke as sorrow filled his words and flowed from his eyes. “He killed them all, and he made me watch.”

Hector was deeply sorry for his aged companion. He could think of no solace to offer, so he asked, “How then did the Keldans owe you? Why did they not kill us on account of your company?”

Fornein shook his head regretfully. “I was instrumental in establishing Eitromal’s lordship. He took power through strict adherence to the Code. I thought a man who served the Code of Lords would rule us well, but he only used the Code to achieve his own ends.”

Hector looked back at the broken body, beginning to understand how deeply and righteously Fornein despised the wretch, and why men like Zadok had been willing to die to oppose him.

Veither stood over the corpse, looking down on it in confusion. He seemed deep in thought, considering all that was arrayed against the Keldan people. At last, he asked Hector, “What do we do now?”

Hector breathed deeply, then took charge of the situation. “Bring us the weapons you took from us in the forest,” he ordered the Keldan hunter, “and bring us our friends. We have a long way to go yet.”

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-ninth of the month of Ennemen

Early in the third hour

Bronwyn clutched the plank she had broken from an interior door jamb. The guards had been delivering food routinely at the third hour for days, but today was different; for one thing, Doc and Bronwyn were poised to make their escape, but more problematically, the time had passed and the guards had not entered.

Holding the long board above her shoulder, ready to strike down anyone who came too close, Bronwyn looked warily at her brother. On the other side of the door, Caradoc wielded a pair of long nails, painfully extracted from the walls. They might have hindered the strength of the house in a gale, but Bronwyn intended to be far away before the next storm.

“Where are they?” Doc whispered, “What’s taking them so long?”

Bronwyn shrugged, frowning in her own confusion. Had they caught wind of her plan? Did they know that she and Doc were waiting for them? Or were they no longer useful enough to be fed? Had Hector failed in his tasks? What exactly were those tasks? The questions filled her mind, and she wrestled with them all at once, trying to find a solid answer for even one. She almost did not notice when the guards posted outside came close enough to be overheard.

“What happened, Veither?” one was asking.

“The foreigner, the one these two came with, he killed Lord Eitromal in rites of combat,” Veither answered. Was that Brynjar? Bronwyn wondered. Had the old Drengar come through for them at last?

“No way,” the other guard declared incredulously, “No way that whelp killed Lord Eitromal.” Whelp? Alarm caught in Bronwyn’s throat. Were they talking about Hector?

The first guard was unlocking the main door. Bronwyn waved Caradoc off; if they were being released, attacking the Keldans would only make things worse. She did not, however, put down her makeshift weapon; if Veither was taking advantage of the tribe’s disarray to please himself, she would not hesitate to defend herself.

As he twisted the key in the lock, the guard replied, “You never went to the arena while he was in there, did you? He’s at least as tough as the older one, especially if he killed the Emmetchan Queen like they say.” He opened the door, swinging it inward, and stepped back.

Veither entered, saw Bronwyn waving a plank around, and immediately yelped in surprise. He fell against the door, which pivoted around until it hit Caradoc, hidden behind it. “Oof!” The young Alkimite stumbled out into the open, dropping his iron weapons.

Veither snapped angrily, “In the name of Kyrou, I’m here to release you!”

Bronwyn wanted to believe it, but she had to be sure. “Swear by Fesall!” she yelled back, threatening him with the plank.

Veither held up his hands in surrender. He said, as calmly as he could, “May my soul and my children’s souls never see that abominable river if I’m lying to you.” He maintained an expression of hopeful impatience. “That good enough?”

Bronwyn still could not trust the wicked man. “Why now?” she asked, as curious as she was suspicious.

“Lord Eitromal is dead,” Veither explained, “And your boyfriend ordered me to bring you to him.” He glanced at Caradoc, who was trying to look dangerous. “Both of you.” Looking back at Bronwyn, he added, “Now just put the board down, so we can go. We don’t have much time.”

Bronwyn lowered the plank, then raised it up again when a thought occurred to her. “Why don’t we have much time?” she demanded, “Is Hector mortally wounded or something?”

Veither grew irritated. “Nothing like that,” he said through clenched teeth. “The Chimaera Regiment has already invaded the forest, and they’re on their way here. If you don’t shift yourselves now, you’ll be free for all of one day—and I promise, Lord Derek won’t be as pleasant as I’ve been.”

The notion that Veither had been anything even remotely pleasant turned her stomach, but the news that the Regiment was almost upon them replaced her disgust with fear and dread. Worse, if they were here, that probably meant that the Alkimites had lost the battle in the Valley. Gregory was probably dead.

She dropped her weapon and followed a grateful Veither out of the house. Then realization dawned on her: if the army had been defeated, then Derek had probably marched on the town. He would have tortured people for information about Hector. The fact that the Regiment was here meant that the youths had been followed—and the only people who knew where they had gone were Lord Aneirin and Hector’s mother, Rhoda.

Their walk back to the great hall continued in a daze. Bronwyn was pulled in a dozen different directions as she thought of all the people she had lost, from her own parents, years ago, to her one-time fiancé, to the lord of her people. When they reached the clearing, Hector and Fornein were standing outside the chieftain’s hall.

Seeing Hector alive and well brought a wave of relief crashing over Bronwyn. She actually broke a smile as she ran to embrace him, and she squeezed him in a tight hug. He laughed, grunted under pressure, and hugged her back.

Doc rushed up after her and hugged Hector, too. His hug was completely different from hers, punctuated by slaps on the back and indecipherable masculine grunts. Bronwyn went to the old hermit and embraced him warmly; he laughed awkwardly, not knowing how to react. “It’s so good to see the both of you alive,” she said at last. “Where’s Brynjar? Has he been released from the arena yet?”

Fornein’s expression turned solemn. He just shook his head. He did not have to explain; the news sent Bronwyn reeling back into worry and doubt.

“Come on,” Hector was saying, “We have to copy down the map from the obelisk, and then we have to meet up with my army.”

The map! Of course! Bronwyn remembered why they had come to this awful forest in the first place: Lord Aneirin had sent them to find the map, so that Hector could put a stop to the evil Derek and his army.

“Wait, army?” Bronwyn echoed, “Since when do we have an army?”

“
I
have an army,” Hector teased. “Well, two, really.”

“But that will have to wait,” Fornein interrupted as the four travelers reached the base of the obelisk. He gestured at it and explained, “I don’t know what this thing is made of, but it’s been standing here since my great-grandfather was an infant, and none of it has ever been damaged by the elements, not even the inscriptions.”

Bronwyn looked up at the strange letters carved into the towering structure. It did not take her long to notice that it was a repeating pattern; there were sixteen lines of text, written over and over again, from top to bottom and on all four sides.

“Can you read it?” Hector asked.

Fornein nodded. “It’s in the old language. Reading this is how Keldan Storytellers keep that tongue alive.” He followed the lines with his outstretched arm, translating and reciting,

O heir of the beginning, the task is your responsibility alone, / in the forest, of stone and of iron, of the dawn, / where the weeping one, the river, meets woes, / the streams all greedy and deep and noisy, which / flow into the abominable one, the child of the sea, / in the lands untrodden by spark-emitting Astor. / O ruler, dive to the depth; alas! swim against the wave. / Surely press down the stone block, O lord; be carried; rise up to your knees. / Follow the line; walk posthaste to its end. / Avoid lights, O son of Kyros, even if the darkness surrounds; / surely you will always be lost, if ever you go there. / Pierce the blaze of fire, and onward! open the door. / Abandon Aeron through the passage, leave behind / death for the ones who pursue you, leave them behind. / To finish your quest, O new king and more, / pick up the ring.

The hermit shook his head slowly, pointing at the last line of the poem, which was barely half as long as the other lines. “This last one has always confused me,” he commented, “It’s almost like they didn’t finish it. Every one of these is supposed to have six measures, but this line only has three.”

The puzzle was intriguing, even invigorating, for Bronwyn. “For all of the epic proportions in this poem,” she suggested, “that last line sounds really humble. For the heir of the beginning, the king, the very son of a Divine, who pierces through fire—all he has to do to be victorious is pick up a ring? Maybe the writers were just trying to emphasize how simple it is.”

Fornein shrugged. He had evidently never considered that possibility.

“I don’t get it,” Caradoc interrupted, “How is this a map?”

Bronwyn pointed to the second line. “Fornein, you said this part meant ‘of the dawn,’ right?” When the hermit nodded, the girl turned to her brother. “Where’s the dawn, Doc?”

The boy made a face that mocked her stupid question. “In the east, of course, where the sun rises.”

She nodded, pointing to an earlier marking in the line, “That means that this ‘forest,’ whatever it is, is in the east. Don’t you see? This isn’t a map drawn on paper, they’re clues etched in stone. It’s our destiny to solve this—only then can Hector stop the Chimaera Regiment.” Excited, she turned to Veither. “Do you have any parchment?” she asked.

If Caradoc’s expression had suggested she was stupid, Veither’s made her look like the biggest dunce since Lippus had tried to steal an armful of apples from the Beautiful Orchard back home, which was maintained by the Alkimites’ chief of the guard, Draus. The Keldan hunter answered, “Seriously?”

Fornein patted Bronwyn on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, girl,” he said, “I memorized it once. Going over it again has brought it all back to me. Take a few minutes with me; no doubt we can have it down after just a reading or two.”

“Make it quick,” Hector reminded them, judging the sun’s position in the sky, “We can’t stay long.”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-ninth of the month of Ennemen

Late in the third hour

It took a little longer than Fornein had anticipated, but that was only because Bronwyn had insisted on memorizing the poem herself. Hector even started remembering a few bits, as they kept repeating it.

Eventually, though, he insisted that they depart. They gathered their things to leave, but Veither stood in their way. Hector warily let his hand slip toward the Leonite sword on his belt, but Veither held up empty palms in a promise of peace. “You asked me to bring your things,” he reminded, “from when we captured you.” The Keldan produced a hunting dagger, the very same that had once belonged to Abram, Hector’s father, and two short swords, which had been Brynjar’s.

Hector sighed sadly as he looked at the familiar blades. He drew Martin’s sword from his belt and tossed it aside carelessly, then secured his own dagger at his back. Taking one of Brynjar’s swords, which were still sheathed, he handed it to Caradoc, then hooked the other onto his belt. Looking into Veither’s eyes, he tried not to hate the man; as wretched as he had been, the Keldan hunter had obeyed when it mattered.

Now that his first task was complete, Veither asked, “What should I do now?”

Hector could not help him. “No matter what you told your people,” he said, “I did not defeat Eitromal by rites of combat. You were Eitromal’s most trusted warrior; your people will look to you for guidance.” He shrugged. “Your tribe is your own. Do with it what you will.” Having said his piece, Hector stepped past the Keldan and started east; his friends followed him.

Turning, Veither called out to him, “I think we’ll make a stand here. This is our forest. I won’t let the Regiment have it.”

Hector smiled, but by the time he looked back, he had hidden the expression. “If you ever see Folguen again,” he said, “thank him for me.” Then he faced eastward again, and the four travelers carried on—after forty-five days, having lost a friend, they were finally able to carry on.

As they walked, Bronwyn, Doc, and Fornein worked to unravel the mysteries of the poem. “What is this ‘abominable one’?” Doc was asking, “It sounds dangerous.” There was a hint of excitement in his voice. Hector wondered that the boy had not had enough danger for a lifetime by now.

“Well,” Fornein said, “whatever it is, it probably is very dangerous. The next line says that it’s a place where Astor, the god of strength and war, has not been. That’s something that used to be said only of the world of the dead.”

Bronwyn frowned. “What did you say?”

“The underworld,” Fornein explained, “They say that, although Astor sends many men there, he himself has never set foot in the underworld.”

Bronwyn slapped the hermit on the shoulder. “Of course!” she exclaimed, “I knew I was missing something. When I made Veither swear by Fesall that he had come to release us, he said ‘that abominable river.’ Remember, Doc?”

Doc nodded. “Yeah, I guess,” he answered, “but what does that mean?”

Fornein nodded, beginning to understand. “I think I see where you’re going with this,” he said, “The abominable one is the river Fesall, which flows through the underworld, where Astor has never been. They also call it the daughter of the ocean, or the child of the sea.”

Bronwyn pressed excitedly, “What about the streams that are greedy and deep and noisy—are they the ‘woes’ that the poem talks about?”

Fornein snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “That’s right! ‘Neth’ means ‘woe,’ and since it’s the river you have to cross to enter the underworld, they say that it tries to pull souls down into it and consume them, and it echoes their screams forever.” Recalling more of the poem, he added, “And the third river of the underworld, Serkia, is formed by the tears of the dead. It’s the ‘weeping’ one!”