The Chimaera Regiment (16 page)

From the slave pen at the north end of the encampment, Fintan watched him go. He envied the man; after all he had witnessed, all he had participated in, he was just going to creep away while no one was looking. Fintan, however, was chained to the last survivors of the massacre in the Valley of Kyros. He knew that some of his fellow slaves, from before their first escape, were alive and well in the Alkimite village, but most had volunteered to fight the villains responsible for their suffering.

And almost everyone who fought had died.

Fintan glanced over at one of his fellow survivors, the old warrior Einar. The man was deeply wounded, like Fintan, at being forced to watch his friends die. Why had Derek selected them to survive? Why not punish them for escaping?

Fintan realized, of course, that the sadistic nature of the Leonite lord pushed him to cause as much suffering as possible. It was great suffering for some to die; for others, especially for men ready to die, it was far greater suffering to live. Fintan hated Derek for causing him that pain, for keeping him from his family, his friends—all the Sundans who had fallen to Fero, all the slaves who had died in captivity, all his new friends among the Alkimites, slaughtered in battle. Only Fintan remained.

Well, and Einar. But Einar had lost the vague optimism that had spurred him onward. No more was he the man seeking vengeance for Duncan’s death; no more was he striving for freedom, or safety, or help for the Alkimites back in the valley.

Neither man knew how to die. When the slaves did not eat, the Regiment’s soldiers forced food down their throats. When they threw it up, more food was found. Soon, it seemed easier just to eat than to start a fight they knew they would lose.

When the Regiment attacked the Keldans, in the forest, Fintan hoped that they might be rescued—or at least joined by some fresh faces. But anyone who survived that attack escaped into the forest. Derek had wanted to burn it down. Fintan had even heard the man give the order. Someone had convinced him not to. The Sundan did not know who.

Soon, Captain Sharian came by to rouse them for travel. Sharian had been, by far, their greatest tormentor. Fintan, though, still harbored a deep and abiding hatred of the man for what he had done to the Thuites, with the explosive brick. Worse was what Fintan had done to help.

A sick feeling permeated his stomach as Sharian pulled him to his feet, “accidentally” stomping down on one of his toes. Fintan was wearing a thin leather shoe; Sharian was sporting his armored boots. The pain was excruciating, but Fintan barely grimaced. He was just too tired.

“Let’s go, slaves!” Sharian called out, “Time to move again. We’ve almost caught the little whelp we’ve been after, and Lord Derek is making sure we get one more good battle in us before settling down in our new lives as kings.” He slapped the shoulders of Fintan and Einar as if they were all good-natured friends. “And you two can be my personal manservants, whaddaya say?”

Fintan ground his teeth, but held his tongue. Einar was not so reserved. The old Alkimite turned on Sharian, lips curled in a snarl. He tackled the Leonite and started pounding away at him. Sharian wailed for help from his troop.

Within a few moments, other soldiers were hauling Einar off their captain, whose lips were split and whose nose was broken. Sharian’s attitude, though, was none the worse for wear. As soon as he was free, he jumped up and beat on the Alkimite slave while the other Leonites held him tight. Sharian yelled incoherent vitriol against the man until his adrenaline was drained and his fury was sated.

Einar was bloodied worse than Sharian, but when the thrashing ceased, he straightened his back and glared at the enemy captain. Fintan, bound to him by only a few feet of chain, could see him resisting the urge to spit blood in Sharian’s eye. The captain leaned in close to the man and hissed, “I’ll avenge this on you, you inconsequential old rat, I swear it!”

As Sharian stormed off, wiping the blood from his face with his forearm, the troop forced the slaves into a line and began marching them south. Fintan did not resist, and after his bout with Sharian, neither did Einar. The two men marched stoically toward death and freedom.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Dekamen

Early in the third hour

The place where they had met Lord Novamic was only a few minutes’ walk north of the river. Once there, the four travelers, led by Captain Arweor and his archers, followed the canal edge up the water’s course until they reached the inlet.

As they walked on the rock-hard roads of the great city, Hector could not help but recall his nightmare. He was confronted by an overwhelming sense that this was the place of which he had dreamed, where he would face the dark figure for the sake of the world. The gods had foreseen it; even he had foreseen it, by a gift of clarity from Ariane, patroness of Storytellers and prophets.

But witnessing the battle in a dream and living through it were two different things. In his dream, he had lost; he fell to Derek. He knew that he had been trained since then, led to strength by Brynjar and by the gods—but that old fear still gripped him, still told him that he was not good enough to survive. As they approached the inlet, he tried to put those thoughts away. The riddle of the poem demanded his immediate attention.

The inlet flowed almost due south until it collided violently with the east-flowing Freewater, just before the river entered the canal that led it through the city. The roiling currents of the meeting place made barely a ripple on the surface, but Fornein warned against trusting too much in sight.

“Don’t believe your eyes,” the old hermit cautioned, “in a spot like this, that river would pull you under and never let you go.”

Arweor agreed. “Two great Sidian warriors drowned in this very spot last spring. What makes you think there is anything of importance here?”

“It’s part of a poem,” Bronwyn explained, “which is also a map to a hidden library. It talks about the city and a place where two rivers meet.”

“A poem that’s a map?” Arweor echoed incredulously. Bronwyn began to explain the path of their quest, starting in the Valley and carrying through to the obelisk, which led them to the city.

Hector stood at the edge of the river, staring down into the cold, murky water that sped past, bringing the churned dirt of the natural riverbed into the artificial canal. “It has to be down there,” he muttered as he searched for some secret, some solution to his quandary.

A niggling feeling tugged at the back of his mind, and he was unable to let it go. He was convinced: the hidden entrance to the Library of the Ancients was underwater. He began to strip off his outer garments. A small sack of food tumbled out onto the stones, followed by his coat; his belt and his father’s dagger and Brynjar’s sword clattered down next.

Fornein was the first to speak up, interrupting Bronwyn and drawing their attention to the young heir. “What are you doing, lad?” he asked.

“Dive to the depth,” Hector quoted, “Swim against the wave. The entrance has to be here.”

“You don’t know that, Hector!” Fornein said sharply, worry pervading his voice. “It could be anywhere along this river!”

“Where the weeping one meets woes,” he quoted again, “the streams all greedy and deep and noisy, which flow into the abominable one.”

“You’re talking about death, lad!” the old hermit persisted. “Death and the land of the dead! Now isn’t the time to be going there; you’re still needed up here!” He turned hopefully to Bronwyn. “Tell him, girl! Tell him he’s a damned fool!”

Bronwyn, recalling the warnings of Fornein and Arweor about the dangers of the river, edged closer to the canal’s stone bank, surveying the spot. As Hector stepped up beside her, clad only in his tunic and pants, she turned to him, placing a gentle hand on his elbow, though her eyes continued to focus on the water below. “Maybe they’re right,” she said, concern furrowing her brow, “Maybe it’s somewhere else. Maybe there is another inlet, outside the city.”

“In the forest of stone and of iron,” he quoted now, then smiled. “You shouldn’t have worked so hard to memorize it, Bron—I probably wouldn’t have picked all this up otherwise.”

She looked at him. Her expression was full of worry. “That’s a six-foot drop to the water,” she said, “and that current will... it’ll whisk you away before you can do anything about it.”

“I’ve changed my mind, Hector,” Caradoc said, looking down at the surging water, a few paces away. “I don’t think the poem means that.”

“Me, neither,” agreed Bronwyn, nodding insistently.

Hector shook his head, still smiling. “No,” he said to Bronwyn alone, “No, you were right. You figured it out. You’re wiser than I ever will be—but now it’s my turn.” He pointed at the river. “This is something I have to do. ‘The task is my responsibility alone,’ remember? Lord Aneirin, Lord Cyrus, Brynjar, they all had faith in me, to the last. I need you to trust me now, too.” His smile widened warmly as he looked into her softening face. Her beauty was precious to him, and for a moment, he wanted to give up the whole world to stay with her—but stopping Derek meant saving her, too. “The Divines have it all planned out,” he added, “This is my destiny, against everything Derek seeks to do: to live a long and fruitful life—with you.”

Bronwyn gnawed at her bottom lip anxiously. Her hand slid from his elbow to his shoulder as he stepped closer. His arms snaked around her and pulled her gently into his embrace. Their lips brushed, then locked. The tingle turned to warmth as it spread through them both. The kiss was long and deep, and for those moments, at once mere seconds and yet eons, all the troubles of the world faded from view, and Hector knew that he wanted to never let her go.

As they pulled apart, that desire fed his will to survive, and his urgent need to complete his quest and return to her. She did nothing to dissuade him now. “If you’re lying to me, Hector son of Abram,” she teased past a lump in her throat, “then—so help me gods—I’ll kill you.”

Hector laughed. He nodded, replying, “I’ll try not to disappoint.” Turning away, he patted Caradoc on the shoulder, who converted the action into a quick, back-slapping embrace. Hector looked back and nodded once to Fornein, who nodded back, though worry and fear were still evident on his haggard features.

Hector took the last tiny step to the edge of the canal wall, and looked back at Bronwyn. Their eyes met, and he smiled again.

Then he jumped.

Rain slowly began to fall on the entourage. Bronwyn stood motionless at the river’s edge; she had not budged. She prayed fervently to Kyros and to Astor and to Aeron, to Aulus and to Anthea and to Carys, even to Ariane, promising sacrifices and libations to any god who would hear her and answer her prayer, that Hector would surface again.

But he never did.

Arweor, standing back from the edge, watched the remaining travelers stare in vain at the waters below. “Carys be with him,” he prayed softly.

“Ah, you poor boy,” Fornein said, shaking his head. He knelt and collected Hector’s garments and weapons, then took Caradoc by the shoulder.

Hector’s young friend was stricken. All he could manage as he was led away from the canal’s edge was a single word, whispered and barely audible over the increasingly heavy rain. “No.”

Bronwyn stared into the river as the rain mingled with her tears, streaming down her face. “Please live, Hector,” she murmured into the storm, “I love you.”

Behind her, the darkened skies and pouring rain obscured Arweor’s vision, but a distinct clattering drew his attention. Looking about, he caught sight of a broken shaft of wood lying scattered on the stone walkway. Realization struck him not a moment too soon. “Take cover!” he roared into the wind.

Bronwyn was in a daze. In the cacophony of the storm, she heard neither the shout nor the arrows falling to earth around her. Arweor did not stop to think, but leapt into action. He grabbed Bronwyn by both arms and shoved her after his retreating troop, who already had Fornein and Caradoc in tow.

Snapped from her reverie, Bronwyn turned to object. Instead, she watched as her rescuer fell over the edge of the canal, transfixed by an arrow meant for her.

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Dekamen

Halfway through the fifth hour

Two hours after the attack at the river, the Sidian troop, with Bronwyn, Caradoc, and Fornein in their midst, reached their stronghold. They were strong and brave warriors, but lacked the numbers and the skill to fend off the Regiment, so they set up their defenses at the tribal fortress.

Once, millennia ago, it had been a towering business in the Imperial City, but it was little more than an empty husk now. Its tremendous height crumbled under the weight of years and many of its identical rooms were worn and rotten. There were even dark, vacuous shafts that traversed every floor of the building. None of it made any sense to Caradoc, whose greatest concern was rescuing his friend.

Arweor’s troop, now absent its captain, led the three up a long staircase to a corner room, the walls of which were mostly windows. Novamic stood there, overlooking his city.

Caradoc did not hesitate to be derisive. “I bet you wish you’d invited the Termessians and the Emmetchae into your city now, don’t you?”

Novamic turned sharply to glare at the boy. Anger showed on his face, but he bit his tongue. After fuming for a moment, he said calmly, “Your armies entered my city anyway.” Looking back out over the landscape, he added, “And it is for the best. A slow retreat toward this stronghold is keeping the Regiment away from vital civilian areas long enough to evacuate them.”

“What about Hector?” Bronwyn demanded, “The river was one of the first places the Regiment attacked. When he surfaces, he’ll be captured for sure!”

Novamic did not answer, but continued to observe the skirmishes from his vantage point at the window. When Bronwyn noticed that she was being ignored, she stormed across the room and spun him around by the collar of his breastplate. “Answer me,” she roared at him, “or let Carys abandon your soul!” Her hard tone was cracked by the softness in her eyes, which spread to her face when she saw his own sorrow. He had not ignored her, she realized, but he had no answer for her.

Novamic replied sadly, “
If
he surfaces again, and if his capture is the will of Kyros, then so be it.” His face hardened and a dangerous edge cut into his voice as he finished, “I cannot be held responsible for him.”

But neither Bronwyn nor Caradoc heard his subtle warning. “You can’t just leave him out there!” the boy protested, “You
must
help him!”

The warlord spun on the both of them. His eyes narrowed menacingly and he held up a single finger in warning. “I
must
do nothing, children, but if
you
must keep shouting, please do me the courtesy of taking it outside, where the Regiment’s arrows will soon relieve me of my headache, without endangering my people.”

“That is unfair, milord,” Fornein interjected, “and unkind.”

Novamic glared at the man, but set his jaw and did not answer. He turned back to the window, where he watched in frustration. The battles were far off and barely visible, but he knew that his soldiers were dying—not because of a legitimate war for territory or power, but because a foolish boy led a terrible army into their midst. At once, it infuriated and saddened him.

Doc spoke again, his words heavy with love for his friend. “If that is what you prefer,” he said, “then I can oblige you—because whether you help him or not, I’m going to rescue him.”

Novamic did not turn around, but Bronwyn caught her brother’s arm. “Doc,” she whispered, “I don’t want to lose you, too.” Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of losing her whole family in one awful day.

Fornein, too, placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, Doc,” he added.

Caradoc took a deep breath. He removed Bronwyn’s hand, then Fornein’s. “I’m sorry,” he responded, “but I have to go. Hector needs all the help he can get. We can’t let Derek take the Blessed Blades from him.”

The Sidian warlord turned now. He would not sit idly by as the boy marched to his own death. “You cannot give yourself up without a plan, or you will have died for nothing, and your friend may remain at risk. Wait for now. The gods will protect Hector, if he is as honorable as you claim.”

“He is,” a firm voice interrupted from the door. They turned to see a familiar face enter the room, accompanied by several Sidian archers.

Bronwyn and Doc rushed to the newcomer’s side. “Aneirin!” they exclaimed. They embraced him, and for a moment, laughter creased their faces. The silver-skinned Guardian bowed to Novamic, who bowed in return.

“We thought you stayed at the Valley,” Doc said questioningly, “to fight Drystan and Derek.”

Aneirin nodded. “I did,” he answered, “but I knew that Derek had learned of your quest and sent a troop to intercept you. I also knew that the challenges facing Hector here would be difficult, so I came to assist you.” He glanced at Novamic, then continued apologetically, “But I arrived before you, so I began to prepare Lord Novamic and the Sidians for your arrival—and for Derek’s.” The Guardian frowned. “I did not anticipate Hector’s disappearance in the river.”

Doc persisted, “But we’re going to save him, right?”

“Please,” Novamic interrupted, “Would you tell this whelp not to attempt this ridiculous notion? It’s a fool’s errand!”

Aneirin smiled in good humor. “On the contrary,” he replied, “I’ve come to help him.”

Caradoc jumped for joy at being supported. “Yes!” he shouted aloud.

Novamic looked incredulous and crestfallen. “You can’t be serious,” he said, “Two men, no matter how powerful, cannot stand against the Regiment alone.”

Aneirin held up his hands. “I do not intend to stand alone,” he said, then looked meaningfully at Doc, “nor do I intend to act without a plan. But by tomorrow morning, everything should be in place—and then we will go out to save Hector.”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The fourth of the month of Dekamen

During the night

Hector slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on a damp, stone-cold floor. He reached his hands out and discovered that it was not a natural rock formation, but cobblestone. Wherever he was, it was a manmade place. It smelled like a natural cave, though, and he could hear water dripping from high above him. He shivered as a cool draft breezed by him, and he realized that he was soaked through—but he could not remember how he had gotten here.

They had just figured out where the entrance to the Library was. They were all standing next to the canal. Hector remembered that he was about to dive in, to find the entrance. Bronwyn had tried to stop him. She had... kissed him. He smiled as he recalled it. A lifetime of peace and joy had been contained in that moment, at once the longest and shortest moment he had experienced. She had kissed him.

But he shook those thoughts away. This was not the time. He needed to figure out where he was and what to do next. What had happened after that kiss? The kiss he had waited years to have, the potential embrace that had distracted him his entire youth. Her lips had been so gentle, even dry and cracked as they were after their adventure together.

He lifted his head and dropped it back onto the stones. Roused from his daydream, he stretched until his back popped, sending waves of relief to his tense muscles.
Then
he remembered what had happened: he had jumped in.

The water had been cold, and the current had been much stronger than he had guessed. He had been pulled under immediately. He stroked as well as he could, but had spent little time swimming as a child; he had no natural affinity for the water. He had feared that he would be swept away, drowned, lost forever in the murky deep. But he knew that the others were depending on him—Bronwyn was depending on him. Renewed vigor filled his limbs, and he pressed forward. His hand had collided with stone, and he had held on tight. With his other hand, he had felt along the worn wall, searching for the “stone block” of the poem.

As he searched, he had felt the intense pressure in his lungs as the air tried to force its way out. His heart thumped in his ears louder than the water that rushed by them. He forgot his search for the stone. He began to panic. He needed leverage, anything, to propel him back to the surface. He needed air. He felt the crushing weight of the water as it pushed him downriver, undeterred.

By chance, one hand had caught a stone that was jutting from the wall. His speed in the current had almost wrenched it from his grasp, tearing the skin on his fingers, but he had held on. He had pushed against it, kicking hard, trying to rise under the constant stream. The stone had reacted to the pressure, sliding back into the wall, robbing Hector of his grip.

The current sent him tumbling down its course. A sudden change hurtled him in a new direction. The wave front had compelled him along the new route. That journey had been a blur. He had lost all sense of direction as the darkness swirled in. The cold was loosening his limbs when he saw a glimmer of light ahead of him.

He had felt drawn, or pushed, toward that light. He had allowed that pressure to propel him forward anew—he had been too tired to resist. He soon realized that he was rising to the surface; he used the last of his energy to swim with the current. He had breached the surface and began gasping for air when everything went black. He must have struck something, because that was the last thing he remembered.

Putting his hands under him, he felt the cold, wet cobblestone again. He pushed out, climbing to his knees, then to his feet. His head throbbed, and he closed his eyes to contend with the pain. A spike of pain rammed through the base of his skull, popping his eyes open again.

“Kneel!”

Hector obeyed instinctively. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. The grating of metal on metal echoed in his ears. A gust of wind rushed by overhead. Then there was silence.

He lifted his head, then stood again, slowly. Behind him lay a pool of crystal-clear water. Above it, hewn stone dripped with moisture. Looking around, he saw that this cavern was entirely artificial, carved with precision from the natural rock. The room was lit by bright surfaces in the ceiling, flat like panels of cloth, but he did not think it was the light of the sun.

He also saw the mechanism that had nearly killed him. Age had done its damage; Hector suspected that the grating noise had not been intentional, but more than that, the blade seemed to have stuck in its course before completing its motion. The trap seemed designed to pass through tiny slits in the walls, but a long sheet of metal sat motionless between Hector and the wall to his right.

The blade was extremely fine, thinner than any Hector had ever seen. Stepping closer, he touched the flat of the blade and noted its strength. This device would have cut him in twain if he had not knelt when he did.

Then he remembered the voice! That warning had saved his life. He would swear to his dying day that it had sounded like the lord Aneirin; Hector searched the room again, hoping to see the Guardian, but it was as empty as before. In front of him, he spied a passage, opposite the pool that had brought him here; like the cavern, it was not natural, but was built from cobblestone.

His stomach grumbled at him, and he realized that he had left all of his food on the bank of the canal. He licked his lips in thirst; at least he could sate that before moving on. Lying back down on the floor, he lapped at the pool until his parched throat was quenched. As he regained his footing, he lamented, too, that he had left behind his supplies; he had no idea how long he would be in this cave, and he wished that he could take some of the pure water with him.

Turning away, he entered the cobblestone passage. There were no more light panels above him. The illumination from the vestibule began to fade as his shadow lengthened over the stones at his feet. The hallway began a slight upward slope as darkness encompassed him.

Neither the slope nor the total darkness continued for long. As Hector felt his way forward, the ground beneath him leveled out and the walls fell away. Ahead, a long line of narrow, lambent stones stretched into the darkness. He felt drawn along it. At first, he resisted the urge; what if he were wrong? What if the line led to his doom?

“Why do you doubt, my son?”

Hector spun to see his own father, Abram son of Gero, standing in the dark. He held a lamp that brightened his face and his open arms. Hector could not believe his eyes. “Father?” he questioned, more incredulous than hopeful. He had not seen his father in more than six years, but even now, the image bore that familiar expression that his father used to wear when he demanded an answer. So Hector stammered out, “Because—I don’t know my path.”

His father’s brow furrowed. “Yet you have been given the word of truth,” he replied.

Hector almost slapped himself for his foolishness. “The poem!” he exclaimed. He recited dutifully, “Dive to the depth; alas! swim against the wave. Surely press down the stone block, o lord; be carried; rise up to your knees.”

His provider interrupted, “There. All these things you have done—the canal, the entrance chamber, the trap. What is next?”

Hector continued, “Follow the line; walk posthaste to its end.”

The figure pointed to the line of stones. “You have your answer.”